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THE  MOTHER 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  •    BOSTON  •     CHICAGO   •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO..  LIMITED 

LONDON   •    BOMBAY    •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


THE    MOTHER 


BY 

GRAZIA  DELEDDA 


Translated  from  the  Italian  by 
MARY  G.  STEEGMANN 


got* 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1923 

All  rights  reserved 


PRINTED   IN   THE   UNITED  STATES  OF   AMERICA 


COPYRIGHT,  19231 
By  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 


Set  up  and  clectrotyped.     Published  November,   1923- 


Press  of 

J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Company 
New  York,  U.   S.  A. 


O 


WNCX 


TRANSLATOR'S  NOTE 

The  Mother  *  is  an  unusual  book,  both  in 
its  story  and  its  setting  in  a  remote  Sardinian 
hill  village,  half  civilized  and  superstitious. 
But  the  chief  interest  lies  in  the  psychological 
study  of  the  two  chief  characters,  and  the  action 
of  the  story  takes  place  so  rapidly  (all  within 
the  space  of  two  days)  and  the  actual  drama  is 
so  interwoven  with  the  mental  conflict,  and  all 
so  forced  by  circumstances,  that  it  is  almost 
Greek  in  its  simple  and  inevitable  tragedy. 

The  book  is  written  without  offence  to  any 
creed  or  opinions,  and  touches  on  no  questions 
of  either  doctrine  or  Church  government.  It 
is  just  a  human  problem,  the  result  of  primitive 
human  nature  against  man-made  laws  it  cannot 
understand. 

*  Translated  from  the  Italian  novel  La  Madre. 


53>859 


PREFACE 

Novelists  who  have  laid  the  scenes  of  their 
stories  almost  invariably  in  one  certain  country 
or  district,  or  amongst  one  certain  class  of  peo- 
ple, or  who  have  dealt  with  one  special  topic  or 
interest,  are  apt  to  be  called  monotonous  by  a 
public  which  merely  reads  to  kill  time  or  is  al- 
ways craving  for  new  sensations  in  its  literature. 
But  to  another  and  more  serious  class  of  reader 
this  very  fidelity  to  scene  and  steadfastness  of 
outlook  is  one  of  the  principal  incentives  to 
take  up  each  fresh  work  of  such  writers,  for  it 
is  safe  to  assume  that  they  are  writing  about 
what  they  really  know  and  understand  and  their 
work  may  be  expected  to  deepen  and  develop 
with  each  succeeding  book. 

Amongst  such  writers  Grazia  Deledda  takes 
high  rank.  One  of  the  foremost  women  nov- 
elists of  Italy,  if  not  the  very  first,  she  has  been 
writing  for  some  five  and  twenty  years,  and 
though  almost  always  utilizing  the  same  setting 


Vll 


viii  PREFACE 

for  her  novels,  each  succeeding  one  has  shown 
a  different  leading  idea,  a  new  variation  upon 
the  eternal  theme  of  more  or  less  primitive 
human  nature. 

Madame  Deledda  is  a  Sardinian  by  birth 
and  parentage.  She  was  born  at  Nuoro,  the 
little  inland  town  that  figures  so  often  in  her 
books,  and  there  she  spent  her  first  youth 
amongst  the  shepherds  and  peasants  and  small 
landed  proprietors  such  as  live  again  in  her 
pages.  On  her  marriage  to  a  young  Lombard 
she  left  Sardinia  and  went  with  her  husband  to 
Rome,  where  she  still  lives  and  works,  with  the 
steadfast  aim  of  yet  further  perfecting  herself 
in  her  art. 

As  may  be  expected,  the  action  of  her  nu- 
merous novels  takes  place  principally  in  her 
native  island  of  Sardinia,  with  its  wild  and 
rugged  background  of  mountain,  rock,  and 
wide  tracts  of  thicket  and  shrub.  The  people 
of  Sardinia,  chiefly  shepherds,  agriculturists, 
and  fishermen,  differ  considerably  from  those 
of  the  mainland,  and  a  graver  and  less  viva- 
cious demeanour  than  most  other  Italians,  a 
strict  sense  of  honour,  and  hospitality  regarded 


PREFACE  ix 

as  an  actual  duty,  makes  them  more  resemble 
the  ancient  Spanish  race  with  which  indeed  they 
are  probably  distantly  akin. 

The  life  of  the  poorer  islanders  is  usually 
one  of  great  privation,  and  ceaseless  hard  work 
is  required  to  win  a  subsistence  from  the  soil 
in  the  mountain  uplands,  exposed  alternately  to 
the  scorching  summer  sun  and  the  fierce  gales 
and  icy  winds  of  winter.  The  native  dress  is 
still  worn,  though  the  fashion  is  dying  out,  and 
the  old  traditional  superstitions  and  half  pagan 
beliefs  in  witchcraft  and  the  evil  eye  survive 
side  by  side  with  a  profound  and  simple  re- 
ligious faith,  a  combination  only  possible  in  the 
islands,  as  in  the  remoter  parts  of  the  main- 
land, where  the  people  never  go  far  from  their 
native  districts  and  seldom  come  in  contact  with 
outside  influences. 

Nowhere,  perhaps,  has  Grazia  Deledda  bet- 
ter portrayed  this  mingling  of  inbred  super- 
stition with  Church-directed  religion  than  in 
The  Mother.  /Here  the  scene  is  laid  in  the  re- 
mote and  only  half  civilized  hill  village  of  Aar,  I 
and  while  the  action  of  the  story  is  dramatic 
and  swift  (it  takes  place  all  within  the  space 


x  PREFACE 

of  two  days),  the  chief  interest  lies  in  the 
psychological  study  of  the  two  principal  charac- 
ters, and  the  actual  drama  is  so  interwoven  with 
the  mental  conflict,  so  developed  by  outward 
circumstances,  that  it  is  almost  Greek  in  its 
simple  and  inevitable  tragedy. 

'We  meet  here  many  of  the  inhabitants  of 
the  mountain  district;  the  old  hunter  who  has 
turned  solitary  through  dread  of  men,  the 
domineering  keeper  and  his  dog,  the  wholly 
delightful  boy  sacristan  and  his  friends.  But 
the  figures  in  whom  the  interest  centres  are, 
first  and  foremost,  the  mother  of  the  young 
parish  priest  of  Aar  (hence  the  title  "La 
Madre"  in  the  original  Italian),  Paul,  the 
priest  himself,  and  Agnes,  the  lonely  woman 
who  wrecks  the  lives  of  both  mother  and  son. 
The  love  story  of  Paul  is  doubtless  common 
enough.  As  is  generally  the  case,  especially 
with  priests  promoted  from  the  humbler  ranks 
of  life,  he  made  his  vows  whilst  still  too  young 
to  understand  all  that  he  was  professing  and 
renouncing.  He  had  been  taught  that  divine 
love  was  all-sufficing,  to  the  exclusion  of  any 
other  kind,  and  when  human  love  overtook 


PREFACE  xi 

him  he  was  too  inexperienced  and  too  weak  to 
have  any  chance  in  the  struggle  for  victory — 
and  he  desperately  trusted  to  the  hazard  of 
events  to  save  him  when  his  own  self-deception 
and  cowardice  had  failed — when  confronted 
with  the  greater  strength  and  moral  honesty 
of  the  woman. 

It  is  the  fine  and  consistently  drawn  char- 
acter of  Maria  Maddalena,  however,  that 
claims  the  reader's  whole  sympathy.  Poor, 
ignorant,  able  neither  to  read  nor  write,  she 
has  brought  up  her  boy  by  her  own  hard  work 
and  has  achieved  the  peasant's  ambition  of 
seeing  him  admitted  to  the  priesthood  and 
given  charge  of  a  parish.  For  a  time  all  goes 
well,  until  the  inevitable  woman  appears  on  the 
scene,  and  then  suddenly  she  finds  her  son  gone 
beyond  her  reach  and  exposed  to  perils  she 
dare  not  contemplate.  In  her  unquestioning 
acceptance  of  the  Church's  laws  her  simple 
mind  is  only  filled  with  terror  lest  Paul  should 

break  those  laws.     But  while  she  is  inexorable 

» 

with  the  priest  her  heart  yearns  over  the  young 
man,  tender  with  his  grief,  and,  spurred  on  by 
a  phantom,  a  dream,  her  love  and  her  intelli- 


xii  PREFACE 

gence  begin  for  the  first  time  to  regret  the 
natural  happiness  he  is  denied  and  to  question 
the  Church's  right  to  impose  such  a  denial. 
And  at  last  the  struggle  and  the  suspense  grow 
more  than  she  can  bear  and  live. 

It  should  be  stated  emphatically  that  the 
book  is  written  without  the  least  offence  to 
any  creed  or  opinion  whatsoever,  and  touches 
on  no  question  of  either  doctrine  or  Church 
government.  It  is  just  a  human  problem,  the 
revolt  of  primitive  human  nature  in  distress 
against  man-made  laws  it  suffers  from  and 
cannot  understand. 

M.  G.  S. 


THE  MOTHER 


THE   MOTHER 


CHAPTER  I 

TO-NIGHT  again  Paul  was  preparing  to 
go  out,  it  seemed. 

From  her  room  adjoining  his  the  mother 
could  hear  him  moving  about  furtively,  perhaps 
waiting  to  go  out  until  she  should  have  ex- 
tinguished her  light  and  got  into  bed. 

She  put  out  her  light,  but  she  did  not  get 
into  bed. 

Seated  close  against  the  door,  she  clasped  her 
hands  tightly  together,  those  work-worn  hands 
of  a  servant,  pressing  the  thumbs  one  upon  the 
other  to  give  herself  courage ;  but  every  moment 
her  uneasiness  increased  and  overcame  her  ob- 
stinate hope  that  her  son  would  sit  down 
quietly,  as  he  used  to  do,  and  begin  to  read, 
or  else  go  to  bed.  For  a  few  minutes,  indeed, 
the  young  priest's  cautious  steps  were  silent. 
She  felt  herself  all  alone.  Outside,  the  noise 


of  the  wind  mingled  with  the  murmuring  of  the 
trees  which  grew  on  the  ridge  of  high  ground 
behind  the  little  presbytery;  not  a  high  wind, 
but  incessant,  monotonous,  that  sounded  as 
though  it  were  enveloping  the  house  in  some 
creaking,  invisible  band,  ever  closer  and  closer, 
trying  to  uproot  it  from  its  foundations  and 
drag  it  to  the  ground. 

The  mother  had  already  closed  the  house 
door  and  barricaded  it  with  two  crossed  bars, 
in  order  to  prevent  the  devil,  who  on  windy 
nights  roams  abroad  in  search  of  souls,  from 
penetrating  into  the  house.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
however,  she  put  little  faith  in  such  things. 
And  now  she  reflected  with  bitterness,  and  a 
vague  contempt  of  herself,  that  the  evil  spirit 
was  already  inside  the  little  presbytery,  that 
it  drank  from  her  Paul's  cup  and  hovered  about 
the  mirror  he  had  hung  on  the  wall  near  his 
window. 

Just  then  she  heard  Paul  moving  about  again. 
Perhaps  he  was  actually  standing  in  front  of 
the  mirror,  although  that  was  forbidden  to 
priests.  But  what  had  Paul  not  allowed  himself 
for  some  considerable  time  now? 


THE    MOTHER  3 

The  mother  remembered  that  lately  she  had 
several  times  come  upon  him  gazing  at  himself 
in  the  glass  like  any  woman,  cleaning  and 
polishing  his  nails,  or  brushing  his  hair,  which 
he  had  left  to  grow  long  and  then  turned  back 
over  his  head,  as  though  trying  to  conceal  the 
holy  mark  of  the  ^ensure.  And  then  he  made 
use  of  perfumes,  he  brushed  his  teeth  with 
scented  powder,  and  even  combed  out  his 
eyebrows. 

She  seemed  to  see  him  now  as  plainly  as 
though  the  dividing  wall  did  not  exist,  a  black 
figure  against  the  white  background  of  his 
room ;  a  tall,  thin  figure,  almost  too  tall,  going 
to  and  fro  with  the  heedless  steps  of  a  boy, 
often  stumbling  and  slipping  about,  but  always 
holding  himself  erect.  His  head  was  a  little 
too  large  for  the  thin  neck,  his  face  pale  and 
overshadowed  by  the  prominent  forehead  that 
seemed  to  force  the  brows  to  frown  and  the 
long  eyes  to  droop  with  the  burden  of  it.  But 
the  powerful  jaw,  the  wide,  full  mouth  and  the 
resolute  chin  seemed  in  their  turn  to  revolt 
with  scorn  against  this  oppression,  yet  not  be 
able  to'throw  it  off. 


4  THE    MOTHER 

But  now  he  halted  before  the  mirror  and 
his  whole  face  lighted  up,  the  eyelids  opened 
to  the  full  and  the  pupils  of  his  clear  brown 
eyes  shone  like  diamonds. 
*  Actually,  in  the  depths  of  her  maternal 
heart,  his  mother  delighted  to  see  him  so  hand- 
some and  strong,  and  then  the  sound  of  his 
furtive  steps  moving  about  again  recalled  her 
sharply  to  her  anxiety. 

He  was  going  out,  there  could  be  no  more 
doubt  about  that.  He  opened  the  door  of  his 
room  and  stood  still  again.  Perhaps  he,  too, 
was  listening  to  the  sounds  without,  but  there 
was  nothing  to  be  heard  save  the  encircling 
wind  beating  ever  against  the  house. 

The  mother  made  an  effort  to  rise  from  her 
chair,  to  cry  out  "My  son,  Paul,  child  of  God, 
stay  here  I"  but  a  power  stronger  than  her 
own  will  kept  her  down.  Her  knees  trembled 
as  though  trying  to  rebel  against  that  infernal 
power;  her  knees  trembled,  but  her  feet  re- 
fused to  move,  and  it  was  as  though  two  com- 
pelling hands  were  holding  her  down  upon 
her  seat. 

Thus    Paul    could    steal    noiselessly    down- 


THE    MOTHER  5 

stairs,  open  the  door  and  go  out,  and  the  wind 
seemed  to  engulf  him  and  bear  him  away  in  a 
flash. 

Only  then  was  she  able  to  rise  and  light  her 
lamp  again.  But  even  this  was  only  achieved 
with  difficulty,  because,  instead  of  igniting,  the 
matches  left  long  violet  streaks  on  the  wall 
wherever  she  struck  them.  But  at  last  the  little 
brass  lamp  threw  a  dim  radiance  over  the  small 
room,  bare  and  poor  as  that  of  a  servant, 
and  she  opened  the  door  and  stood  there, 
listening.  She  was  still  trembling,  yet  she 
moved  stiffly  and  woodenly,  and  with  her  large 
head  and  her  short,  broad  figure  clothed  in 
rusty  black  she  looked  as  though  she  had  been 
hewn  with  an  axe,  all  of  a  piece,  from  the  trunk 
of  an  oak. 

From  her  threshold  she  looked  down  the 
slate  stairs  descending  steeply  between  white- 
washed walls,  at  the  bottom  of  which  the  door 
shook  upon  its  hinges  with  the  violence  of  the 
wind.  And  when  she  saw  the  two  bars  which 
Paul  had  unfastened  and  left  leaning  against 
the  wall  she  was  filled  with  sudden  wild 
anger. 


6  THE    MOTHER 

Ah  no,  she  must  defeat  the  devil.  Then  she 
placed  her  light  on  the  floor  at  the  top  of  the 
stairs,  descended  and  went  out,  too. 

The  wind  seized  hold  of  her  roughly,  blowing 
out  her  skirts  and  the  handkerchief  over  her 
head,  as  though  it  were  trying  to  force  her  back 
into  the  house.  But  she  knotted  the  handker- 
chief tightly  under  her  chin  and  pressed  for- 
ward with  bent  head,  as  though  butting  aside 
all  obstacles  in  her  path.  She  felt  her  way  past 
the  front  of  the  presbytery,  along  the  wall  of 
the  kitchen  garden  and  past  the  front  of  the 
church,  but  at  the  corner  of  the  church  she 
paused.  Paul  had  turned  there,  and  swiftly, 
like  some  great  black  bird,  his  cloak  flapping 
round  him,  he  had  almost  flown  across  the 
field  that  extended  in  front  of  an  old  house 
built  close  against  the  ridge  of  land  that  shut 
in  the  horizon  above  the  village. 

The  uncertain  light,  now  blue,  now  yellow, 
as  the  moon's  face  shone  clear  or  was  traversed 
by  big  clouds,  illumined  the  long  grass  of  the 
field,  the  little  raised  piazza  in  front  of  the 
church  and  presbytery,  and  the  two  lines  of 
cottages  on  either  side  of  the  steep  road, 


THE    MOTHER  7 

which  wound  on  and  downwards  till  it  lost 
itself  amidst  the  trees  in  the  valley.  And  in 
the  centre  of  the  valley,  like  another  grey  and 
winding  road,  was  the  river  that  flowed  on  and 
in  its  turn  lost  itself  amidst  the  rivers  and 
roads  of  the  fantastic  landscape  that  the  wind- 
driven  clouds  alternately  revealed  and  con- 
cealed on  that  distant  horizon  that  lay  beyond 
the  valley's  edge. 

In  the  village  itself  not  a  light  was  to  be 
seen,  nor  even  a  thread  of  smoke.  They  were 
all  asleep  by  now  in  the  poverty-stricken  cot- 
tages, which  clung  to  the  grassy  hill-side  like 
two  rows  of  sheep,  whilst  the  church  with  its 
slender  tower,  itself  protected  by  the  ridge  of 
land  behind  it,  might  well  represent  the  shep- 
herd leaning  upon  his  staff. 

The  elder  trees  which  grew  along  the  para- 
pet of  the  piazza  before  the  church  were 
bending  and  tossing  furiously  in  the  wind,  black 
and  shapeless  monsters  in  the  gloom,  and  in 
answer  to  their  rustling  cry  came  the  lament  of 
the  poplars  and  reeds  in  the  valley.  And  in  all 
this  dolour  of  the  night,  the  moaning  wind  and 
the  moon  drowning  midst  the  angry  clouds,  was 


8  THE    MOTHER 

merged  the  sorrow  of  the  mother  seeking  for 
her  son. 

Until  that  moment  she  had  tried  to  deceive 
herself  with  the  hope  that  she  would  see  him 
going  before  her  down  into  the  village  to  visit 
*some  sick  parishioner,  but  instead,  she  beheld 
him  running  as  though  spurred  on  by  the  devil 
towards  the  old  house  under  the  ridge. 

And  in  that  old  house  under  the  ridge  there 
was  no  one  save  a  woman,  young,  healthy 
and  alone.  .  .  . 

Instead  of  approaching  the  principal  entrance 
like  an  ordinary  visitor,  he  went  straight  to  the 
little  door  in  the  orchard  wall,  and  immediately 
it  opened  and  closed  again  behind  him  like  a 
black  mouth  that  had  swallowed  him  up. 

Then  she  too  ran  across  the  meadow,  tread- 
ing in  the  path  his  feet  had  made  in  the  long 
grass;  straight  to  the  little  door  she  ran,  and 
she  put  her  open  hands  against  it,  pushing  with 
all  her  strength.  But  the  little  door  remained 
closed,  it  even  seemed  to  repulse  her  by  an 
active  power  of  its  own,  and  the  woman  felt  she 
must  strike  it  and  cry  aloud.  She  looked  at  the 
wall  and  touched  it  as  though  to  test  its  solidity, 


THE    MOTHER  9 

and  at  last  in  despair  she  bent  her  head  and 
listened  intently.  But  nothing  could  be  heard 
save  the  creaking  and  rustling  of  the  trees  in- 
side the  orchard,  friends  and  accomplices  of 
their  mistress,  trying  to  cover  with  their  own 
noises  all  other  sounds  there  within. 

But  the  mother  would  not  be  beaten,  she 
must  hear  and  know — or  rather,  since  in  her 
inmost  soul  she  already  knew  the  truth,  she 
wanted  some  excuse  for  still  deceiving  herself. 

Careless  now  whether  she  were  seen  or  not, 
she  walked  the  whole  length  of  the  orchard 
wall,  past  the  front  of  the  house,  and  beyond 
it  as  far  as  the  big  gate  of  the  courtyard;  and 
as  she  went  she  touched  the  stones  as  though 
seeking  one  that  would  give  way  and  leave  a 
hole  whereby  she  might  enter  in.  But  every- 
thing was  solid,  compact,  fast  shut — the  big 
entrance  gate,  the  hall  door,  the  barred  win- 
dows were  like  the  openings  in  a  fortress. 

At  that  moment  the  moon  emerged  from 
behind  the  clouds  and  shone  out  clear  in  a  lake 
of  blue,  illuminating  the  reddish  frontage  of 
the  house,  which  was  partly  overshadowed  by 
the  deep  eaves  of  the  overhanging  grass-grown 


io  THE    MOTHER 

roof;  the  inside  shutters  of  the  windows  were 
closed  and  the  panes  of  glass  shone  like  green- 
ish mirrors,  reflecting  the  drifting  clouds  and 
the  patches  of  blue  sky  and  the  tossing  branches 
of  the  trees  upon  the  ridge. 

Then  she  turned  back,  striking  her  head 
against  the  iron  rings  let  into  the  wall  for  teth- 
ering horses.  Again  she  halted  in  front  of  the 
chief  entrance,  and  before  that  big  door  with 
its  three  granite  steps,  its  Gothic  porch  and 
iron  gate,  she  felt  suddenly  humiliated,  power- 
less to  succeed,  smaller  even  than  when,  as  a 
little  girl,  she  had  loitered  near  with  other  poor 
children  of  the  village,  waiting  till  the  master 
of  the  house  should  come  out  and  fling  them 
a  few  pence. 

It  had  happened  sometimes  in  those  far-off 
days  that  the  door  had  been  left  wide  open 
and  had  afforded  a  view  into  a  dark  entrance 
hall,  paved  with  stone  and  furnished  with  stone 
seats.  The  children  had  shouted  at  this  and 
thrust  themselves  forward  even  to  the  thresh- 
old, their  voices  re-echoing  in  the  interior  of 
the  house  as  in  a  cave.  Then  a  servant  had  ap- 
peared to  drive  them  away. 


THE    MOTHER  n 

"  What  I  You  here,  too,  Maria  Maddalena ! 
Aren't  you  ashamed  to  go  running  about  with 
those  boys,  a  great  girl  like  you?  " 

And  she,  the  girl,  had  shrunk  back  abashed, 
but  nevertheless  she  had  turned  to  stare  curi- 
ously at  the  mysterious  inside  of  the  house. 
And  just  so  did  she  shrink  back  now  and  move 
away,  wringing  her  hands  in  despair  and  staring 
again  at  the  little  door  which  had  swallowed 
up  her  Paul  like  a  trap.  But  as  she  retraced  her 
steps  and  walked  homeward  again  she  began  to 
regret  that  she  had  not  shouted,  that  she  had 
not  thrown  stones  at  the  door  and  compelled 
those  inside  to  open  it  and  let  her  try  to  rescue 
her  son.  She  repented  her  weakness,  stood 
still,  irresolute,  turned  back,  then  homewards 
again,  drawn  this  way  and  that  by  her  torment- 
ing anxiety,  uncertain  what  to  do :  until  at  last 
the  instinct  of  self-preservation,  the  need  of 
collecting  her  thoughts  and  concentrating  her 
strength  for  the  decisive  battle, -drove  her  home 
as  a  wounded  animal  takes  refuge  in  its  lair. 

The  instant  she  got  inside  the  presbytery  she 
shut  the  door  and  sat  down  heavily  on  the 
bottom  stair.  From  the  top  of  the  staircase 


12  THE    MOTHER 

came  the  dim  flickering  light  of  the  lamp,  and 
everything  within  the  little  house,  up  to  now 
as  steady  and  quiet  as  a  nest  built  in  some 
crevice  of  the  rocks,  seemed  to  swing  from  side 
to  side :  the  rock  was  shaken  to  its  foundations 
and  the  nest  was  falling  to  the  ground. 

Outside  the  wind  moaned  and  whistled  more 
loudly  still;  the  devil  was  destroying  the 
presbytery,  the  church,  the  whole  world  of 
Christians. 

"Oh  Lord,  oh  Lord  I"  wailed  the  mother, 
and  her  voice  sounded  like  the  voice  of  some 
other  woman  speaking. 

Then  she  looked  at  her  own  shadow  on  the 
staircase  wall  and  nodded  to  it.  Truly,  she 
felt  that  she  was  not  alone,  and  she  began  to 
talk  as  though  another  person  were  there  with 
her,  listening  and  replying. 

"  What  can  I  do  to  save  him?  " 

11  Wait  here  till  he  comes  in,  and  then  speak 
to  him  plainly  and  firmly  whilst  you  are  still 
in  time,  Maria  Maddalena." 

"  But  he  would  get  angry  and  deny  it  all. 
It  would  be  better  to  go  to  the  Bishop  and  beg 
him  to  send  us  away  from  this  place  of  perdi- 


THE    MOTHER  13 

tion.    The  Bishop  is  a  man  of  God  and  knows 
the  world.     I  will  kneel  at  his  feet;  I  can  al- 
most see  him  now,  dressed  all  in  white,  sitting 
in  his  red  reception  room,  with  his  golden  cross 
shining  on  his  breast  and  two  fingers  raised  in 
benediction.    He  looks  like  our  Lord  Himself  I 
I  shall  say  to  him :  Monsignore,  you  know  that 
the  parish  of  Aar,  besides  being  the  poorest 
in  the  kingdom,  lies  under  a  curse.    For  nearly 
a  hundred  years  it  was  without  a  priest  and 
the  inhabitants  forgot  God  entirely;  then  at 
last  a  priest  came  here,  but  Monsignore  knows 
what  manner  of  man  he  was.     Good  and  holy 
till  he  was  fifty  years  of  age :  he  restored  the 
presbytery  and  the  church,  built  a  bridge  across 
the  river  at  his  own  expense,  and  went  out 
shooting  and  shared  the  common  life  of  the 
shepherds    and   hunters.      Then    suddenly   he 
changed  and  became  as  evil  as  the  devil.     He 
practised  sorcery.    He  began  to  drink  and  grew 
overbearing  and  passionate.    He  used  to  smoke 
a  pipe  and  swear,   and  he  would  sit  on  the 
ground  playing  cards  with  the  worst  ruffians 
of  the  place,  who  liked  him  and  protected  him, 
however,  and  for  this  very  reason  the  others 


i4  THE    MOTHER 

let  him  alone.    Then,  during  his  latter  years,  he 
shut  himself  up   in  the   presbytery  all  alone 
without  even   a   servant,   and  he   never  went 
outside  the  door  except  to  say  Mass,  but  he 
always  said  it  before  dawn,  so  that  nobody 
ever  went.    And  they  say  he  used  to  celebrate 
when  he  was  drunk.     His  parishioners  were 
too  frightened  to  bring  any  accusation  against 
him,  because  it  was  said  that  he  was  protected 
by  the  devil  in  person.     And  then  when  he 
fell  ill  there  was  not   a  woman  who  would 
go  and  nurse  him.     Neither  woman  nor  man, 
of  the  decent  sort,  went  to  help  him  through 
his  last  days,  and  yet  at  night  every  window  in 
the  presbytery  was  lighted  up;  and  the  people 
said  that  during  those  last  nights  the  devil  had 
dug  an  underground  passage  from  this  house 
to  the  river,  through  which  to  carry  away  the 
mortal  remains  of  the  priest.    And  by  this  pas- 
sage the  spirit  of  the  priest  used  to  come  back 
in  the  years  that  followed  his  death  and  haunt 
the  presbytery,  so  that  no  other  priest  would 
ever  come  to  live  here.    A  priest  used  to  come 
from  another  village  every  Sunday  to  say  Mass 
and  bury  the  dead,  but  one  night  the  spirit  of 


THE    MOTHER  15 

the  dead  priest  destroyed  the  bridge,  and  after 
that  for  ten  years  the  parish  was  without  a 
priest,  until  my  Paul  came.  And  I  came  with 
him.  We  found  the  village  and  its  inhabitants 
grown  quite  wild  and  uncivilized,  without  faith 
at  all,  but  everything  revived  again  after  my 
Paul  came,  like  the  earth  at  the  return  of  the 
spring.  But  the  superstitious  were  right,  dis- 
aster will  fall  upon  the  new  priest  because  the 
spirit  of  the  old  one  still  reigns  in  the  presby- 
tery. Some  say  that  he  is  not  dead  and  that 
he  lives  in  an  underground  dwelling  communi- 
cating with  the  river.  I  myself  have  never  be- 
lieved in  such  tales,  nor  have  I  ever  heard  any 
noises.  For  seven  years  we  have  lived  here,  my 
Paul  and  I,  as  in  a  little  convent.  Until  a  short 
time  ago  Paul  led  the  life  of  an  innocent  child, 
he  studied  and  prayed  and  lived  only  for  the 
good  of  his  parishioners.  Sometimes  he  used 
to  play  the  flute.  He  was  not  merry  by  nature, 
but  he  was  calm  and  quiet.  Seven  years  of 
peace  and  plenty  have  we  had,  like  those  in  the 
Bible.  My  Paul  never  drank,  he  did  not  go 
out  shooting,  he  did  not  smoke  and  he  never 
looked  at  a  woman.  All  the  money  he  could 


16  THE    MOTHER 

save  he  put  aside  to  rebuild  the  bridge  below 
the  village.  He  is  twenty-eight  years  old,  is  my 
Paul,  and  now  the  curse  has  fallen  upon  him. 
A  woman  has  caught  him  in  her  net.     Oh,  my 
Lord  Bishop,  send  us  away  from  here;  save  my 
Paul,  for  otherwise  he  will  lose  his  soul  as  did 
the  former  priest!     And  the  woman  must  be 
saved,  too.     After  all,  she  is  a  woman  living 
alone  and  she  has  her  temptations  also  in  that 
lonely  house,  midst  the  desolation  of  this  little 
village  where  there  is  nobody  fit  to  bear  her 
company.     My  Lord  Bishop,  your  Lordship 
knows  that  woman,  you  were  her  guest  with 
all  your  following  when  you  came  here  on  your 
pastoral  visitation.     There  is  room  and  stuff 
to  spare,  in  that  house!     And  the  woman  is 
rich,  independent,  alone,  too  much  alone!    She 
has  brothers  and  a  sister,  but  they  are  all  far 
away,  married  and  living  in  other  countries. 
She  remained  here  alone  to  look  after  the  house 
and  the  property,  and  she  seldom  goes  out. 
And  until  a  little  while  ago  my  Paul  did  not 
even  know  her.     Her  father  was   a   strange 
sort  of  man,  half  gentleman,  half  peasant,  a 
hunter  and  a  heretic.     He  was  a  friend  of  the 


THE    MOTHER  17 

old  priest,  and  I  need  say  no  more.  He  never 
went  to  church,  but  during  his  last  illness  he 
sent  for  my  Paul,  and  my  Paul  stayed  with  him 
till  he  died  and  gave  him  a  funeral  such  as  had 
never  been  seen  in  these  parts.  Every  single 
person  in  the  village  went  to  it,  even  the  babies 
were  carried  in  their  mothers'  arms.  Then 
afterwards  my  Paul  went  on  visiting  the  only 
survivor  of  that  household.  And  this  orphan 
girl  lives  alone  with  bad  servants.  Who  directs 
her,  who  advises  her?  Who  is  there  to  help 
her  if  we  do  not?  " 

Then  the  other  woman  asked  her: 

"Are  you  certain  of  this,  Maria  Madda- 
lena?  Are  you  really  sure  that  what  you  think 
is  true  ?  Can  you  actually  go  before  the  Bishop 
and  speak  thus  about  your  son  and  that  other 
person,  and  prove  it?  And  suppose  it  should 
not  be  true  ?  " 

"Oh  Lord,  oh  Lord!" 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  ^and  im- 
mediately there  rose  before  her  the  vision 
of  her  Paul  and  the  woman  together  in  a 
ground-floor  room  in  the  old  house.  It  was 
a  very  large  room  looking  out  into  the  orchard, 


i8  THE    MOTHER 

with  a  domed  ceiling,  and  the  floor  was  of 
pounded  cement  with  which  small  sea-shells  and 
pebbles  had  been  mixed;  on  one  side  was  an 
immense  fireplace,  to  right  and  left  of  which 
stood  an  arm-chair  and  in  front  was  an  antique 
sofa.  The  whitewashed  walls  were  adorned 
with  arms,  stags'  heads  and  antlers,  and 
paintings  whose  blackened  canvases  hung  in 
tatters,  little  of  the  subjects  being  distinguish- 
able in  the  shadows  save  here  and  there  a 
dusky  hand,  some  vestige  of  a  face,  of  a 
woman's  hair,  or  bunch  of  fruit. 

Paul  and  the  woman  were  seated  in  front  of 
the  fire,  clasping  each  other's  hands. 

"  Oh,  my  God !  "  came  the  mother's  moaning 
cry. 

And  in  order  to  banish  that  diabolic  vision 
she  evoked  another.  It  was  the  same  room 
again,  but  illumined  now  by  the  greenish  light 
that  came  through  the  barred  window  looking 
out  over  the  meadow  and  the  door  which 
opened  direct  from  the  room  into  the  orchard, 
and  through  which  she  saw  the  trees  and 
foliage  gleaming,  still  wet  with  the  autumn 
dew.  Some  fallen  leaves  were  blown  softly 


THE    MOTHER  19 

about  the  floor  and  the  chains  of  the  antique 
brass  lamp  that  stood  upon  the  mantelshelf 
swung  to  and  fro  in  the  draught.  Through  a 
half-open  door  on  the  other  side  she  could  see 
other  rooms,  all  somewhat  dark  and  with  closed 
windows. 

She  stood  there  waiting,  with  a  present  of 
fruit  which  her  Paul  had  sent  to  the  mistress 
of  the  house.  And  then  the  mistress  came, 
with  a  quickened  step  and  yet  a  little  shy;  she 
came  from  the  dark  rooms,  dressed  in  black, 
her  pale  face  framed  between  two  great  knots 
of  black  plaits,  and  her  thin  white  hands  emerg- 
ing from  the  shadows  like  those  in  the  pictures 
on  the  wall. 

And  even  when  she  came  close  and  stood  in 
the  full  light  of  the  room  there  was  about  her 
small  slender  figure  something  evanescent, 
doubtful.  Her  large  dark  eyes  fell  instantly 
on  the  basket  of  fruit  standing  on  the  table, 
then  turned  with  a  searching  look  upon  the 
woman  who  stood  waiting,  and  a  swift  smile, 
half  joy,  half  contempt,  passed  over  the  sad 
and  sensual  curves  of  her  lips. 

And  in  that  moment,  though  she  knew  not 


20  THE    MOTHER 

how  or  why,  the  first  suspicion  stirred  in  the 
mother's  heart. 


She  could  not  have  explained  the  reason 
why,  but  her  memory  dwelt  on  the  eagerness 
with  which  the  girl  had  welcomed  her,  making 
her  sit  down  beside  her  and  asking  for  news  of 
Paul.  She  called  him  Paul  as  a  sister  might 
have  done,  but  she  did  not  treat  her  as  though 
she  were  their  common  mother,  but  rather  as 
a  rival  who  must  be  flattered  and  deceived. 
She  ordered  coffee  for  her,  which  was  served 
on  a  large  silver  tray  by  a  barefoot  maid  whose 
face  was  swathed  like  an  Arab's.  She  talked 
of  her  two  brothers,  both  influential  men  living 
far  away,  taking  secret  delight  in  picturing 
herself  between  these  two,  as  between  columns 
supporting  the  fabric  of  her  solitary  life.  And 
then  at  last  she  led  the  visitor  out  to  see  the 
orchard,  through  the  door  opening  straight 
from  the  room. 

Big  purple  figs  covered  with  a  silver  sheen, 
pears,  and  great  bunches  of  golden  grapes  hung 
amidst  the  vivid  green  of  the  trees  and  vines. 


THE    MOTHER  21 

Why  should  Paul  send  a  gift  of  fruit  to  one 
who  possessed  so  much  already? 

Even  now,  sitting  on  the  stairs  in  the  dim 
light  of  the  flickering  lamp,  the  mother  could 
see  again  the  look,  at  once  ironical  and  tender, 
which  the  girl  had  turned  upon  her  as  she  bade 
her  farewell,  and  the  manner  in  which  she 
lowered  her  heavy  eyelids  as  though  she  knew 
no  other  way  of  hiding  the  feelings  her  eyes 
betrayed  too  plainly.  And  those  eyes,  and  that 
way  of  revealing  her  soul  in  a  sudden  flash 
of  truth  and  then  instantly  drawing  back  into 
herself  again,  was  extraordinarily  like  Paul.  So 
much  so  that  during  the  days  following,  when 
because  of  his  manner  and  his  reserve  her 
suspicions  grew  and  filled  her  heart  with  fear, 
she  did  not  think  with  any  hatred  of  the  woman 
who  was  leading  him  into  sin,  but  she  thought 
only  of  how  she  might  save  her  too,  as  though 
it  had  been  the  saving  of  a  daughter  of  her 
own. 


CHAPTER  II 

AUTUMN  and  winter  had  passed  without 
anything  happening  to  confirm  her 
suspicions,  but  now  with  the  return  of  the 
spring,  with  the  blowing  of  the  March  winds, 
the  devil  took  up  his  work  again. 

Paul  went  out  at  night,  and  he  went  to  the 
old  house. 

"What  shall  I  do,  how  can  I  save  him?" 

But  the  wind  only  mocked  at  her  in  reply, 
shaking  the  house  door  with  its  furious  blasts. 

She  remembered  their  first  coming  to  the 
village,  immediately  after  Paul  had  been  ap- 
pointed parish  priest  here.  For  twenty  years 
she  had  been  in  service  and  had  resisted  every 
temptation,  every  prompting  and  instinct  of 
nature,  depriving  herself  of  love,  even  of  bread 
itself,  in  order  that  she  might  bring  up  her  boy 
rightly  and  set  him  a  good  example.  Then  they 
came  here,  and  just  such  a  furious  wind  as  this 

had  beset  them  on  their  journey.     It  had  been 

23 


24  THE    MOTHER 

springtime  then,  too,  but  the  whole  valley 
seemed  to  have  slipped  back  into  the  grip  of 
winter.  Leaves  were  blown  hither  and  thither, 
the  trees  bent  before  the  blast,  leaning  one 
against  another,  as  though  gazing  fearfully 
at  the  battalions  of  black  clouds  driving  rapidly 
across  the  sky  from  all  parts  of  the  horizon, 
while  large  hailstones  fell  and  bruised  the 
tender  green. 

At  the  point  where  the  road  turns,  over- 
looking the  valley,  and  then  descends  towards 
the  river,  there  was  such  a  sudden  onslaught 
of  wind  that  the  horses  came  to  a  dead  atvjp, 
pricking  their  ears  and  neighing  with  fear. 
The  storm  shook  their  bridles  like  some  bandit 
who  had  seized  their  heads  to  stop  them  that 
he  might  rob  the  travellers,  and  even  Paul, 
although  apparently  he  was  enjoying  the  ad- 
venture, had  cried  out  with  vague  superstition 
in  his  voice : 

"It  must  be  the  evil  spirit  of  the  old  priest 
trying  to  prevent  us  coming  here !" 

But  his  words  were  lost  in  the  shrill  whistling 
of  the  wind,  and  although  he  smiled  a  little 
ruefully,  a  one-sided  smile  that  touched  but 


THE    MOTHER  25 

one  corner  of  his  lips,  his  eyes  were  sad  as  they 
rested  on  the  village  which  now  came  in  sight, 
like  a  picture  hanging  on  the  green  hill-side  on 
the  opposite  slope  of  the  valley  beyond  the 
tumbling  stream. 

The  wind  dropped  a  little  after  they  had 
crossed  the  river.  The  people  of  the  village, 
who  were  as  ready  to  welcome  the  new  priest 
as  though  he  were  the  Messiah,  were  all 
gathered  together  in  the  piazza  before  the 
church,  and  on  a  sudden  impulse  a  group  of 
the-vounger  men  amongst  them  had  gone  down 
tolrieet  the  travellers  on  the  river  bank.  They 
descended  the  hill  like  a  flight  of  young  eagles 
from  the  mountains,  and  the  air  resounded  with 
their  merry  shouts.  When  they  reached  their 
parish  priest  they  gathered  round  him  and  bore 
him  up  the  hill  in  triumph,  every  now  and  then 
firing  their  guns  into  the  air  as  a  mark  of  re- 
joicing. The  whole  valley  echoed  with  their 
cheering  and  firing,  the  wind  itself  was  pacified 
and  the  weather  began  to  clear  up. 

Even  in  this  present  hour  of  anguish  the 
mother's  heart  swelled  with  pride  when  she 
recalled  that  other  hour  of  triumph.  Again 


26  THE    MOTHER 

.she  seemed  to  be  living  in  a  dream,  to  be  borne 
as  though  on  a  cloud  by  those  noisy  youths, 
while  beside  her  walked  her  Paul,  so  boyish 
still,  but  with  a  look  half  divine  upon  his  face 
as  those  strong  men  bowed  before  him  with 
respect. 

Up  and  up  they  climbed.  Fireworks  were 
being  let  off  on  the  highest  and  barest  point  of 
the  ridge,  the  flames  streaming  out  like  red 
banners  against  the  background  of  black  clouds 
and  casting  their  reflections  on  the  grey  village, 
the  green  hill-side  and  the  tamarisks  and  elder 
trees  that  bordered  the  path. 

Up  and  still  up  they  went.  Over  the  parapet 
of  the  piazza  leaned  another  wall  of  human 
bodies  and  eager  faces  crowned  with  men's 
caps  or  framed  in  women's  kerchiefs  with  long 
fluttering  fringes.  The  children's  eyes  danced 
with  delight  at  the  unwonted  excitement,  and 
on  the  edge  of  the  ridge  the  figures  of  the  boys 
tending  the  fireworks  looked  like  slender  black 
demons  in  the  distance. 

Through  the  wide-open  door  of  the  church 
the  flames  of  the  lighted  candles  could  be  seen 
trembling  like  narcissi  in  the  wind;  the  bells 


THE    MOTHER  27 

were  ringing  loudly,  and  even  the  clouds  in  the 
pale  silvery  sky  seemed  to  have  gathered  round 
the  tower  to  watch  and  wait. 

Suddenly  a  cry  rang  out  from  the  little 
crowd:  "Here  he  is!  Here  he  is!  .  .  .  And 
he  looks  like  a  saint !" 

There  was  nothing  of  a  saint  about  him, 
however,  except  that  air  of  utter  calm :  he  did 
not  speak,  he  did  not  even  acknowledge  the 
people's  greetings,  he  seemed  in  no  way  moved 
by  that  popular  demonstration :  he  only  pressed 
his  lips  tightly  together  and  bent  his  eyes  upon 
the  ground  with  a  slight  frown,  as  though  tired 
by  the  burden  of  that  heavy  brow.  Then  sud- 
denly, when  they  had  reached  the  piazza  and 
were  surrounded  by  the  welcoming  throng,  the 
mother  saw  him  falter  as  though  about  to  fall, 
a  man  supported  him  for  an  instant,  then  imme- 
diately he  recovered  his  balance  and  turning 
swiftly  into  the  church  he  fell  on  his  knees  be- 
fore the  altar  and  began  to  intone  the  evening 
prayer. 

And  the  weeping  women  gave  the  responses. 
***** 

The  poor  women  wept,  but  their  tears  were 


28  THE    MOTHER 

the  happy  tears  of  love  and  hope  and  the 
longing  for  a  joy  not  of  this  world,  and  the 
mother  felt  the  balm  of  those  tears  falling  on 
her  heart  even  in  this  hour  of  her  grief.  Her 
Paul!  Her  love,  her  hope,  the  embodiment 
of  her  desire  for  unearthly  joy!  And  now  the 
spirit  of  evil  was  drawing  him  away,  and  she 
sat  there  at  the  bottom  of  the  staircase  as  at 
the  bottom  of  a  well,  and  made  no  effort  to 
rescue  him. 

She  felt  she  was  suffocating,  her  heart  was 
heavy  as  a  stone.  She  got  up  in  order  to  breathe 
more  easily,  and  mounting  the  stairs  she  picked 
up  the  lamp  and  held  it  aloft  as  she  looked 
round  her  bare  little  room,  where  a  wooden 
bedstead  and  a  worm-eaten  wardrobe  kept  each 
other  company  as  the  only  furniture  in  the 
place.  It  was  a  room  fit  only  for  a  servant — 
she  had  never  desired  to  better  her  lot,  content 
to  find  her  only  wealth  in  being  the  mother  of 
her  Paul. 

Then  she  went  into  his  room  with  its  white 
walls  and  the  narrow  virginal  bed.  This  cham- 
ber had  once  been  kept  as  simple  and  tidy  as 
that  of  a  girl;  he  had  loved  quiet,  silence, 


THE    MOTHER  29 

order,  and  always  had  flowers  upon  his  little 
writing-table  in  front  of  the  window.  But 
latterly  he  had  not  cared  about  anything:  he 
had  left  his  drawers  and  cupboards  open  and 
his  books  littered  about  on  the  chairs  or  even 
on  the  floor. 

The  water  in  which  he  had  washed  before 
going  out  exhaled  a  strong  scent  of  roses :  a  coat 
had  been  flung  off  carelessly  and  lay  on  the 
floor  like  a  prostrate  shadow  of  himself.  That 
sight  and  that  scent  roused  the  mother  from 
her  preoccupation :  she  picked  up  the  coat  and 
thought  scornfully  that  she  would  be  strong 
enough  even  to  pick  up  her  son  himself.  Then 
she  tidied  the  room,  clattering  to  and  fro 
without  troubling  now  to  deaden  the  sound  of 
her  heavy  peasant  shoes.  She  drew  up  to  the 
table  the  leather  chair  in  which  he  sat  to  read, 
thumping  it  down  on  the  floor  as  though  order- 
ing it  to  remain  in  its  place  awaiting  the  speedy 
return  of  its  master.  Then  she  turned  to  the 
little  mirror  hanging  beside  the  window.  .  .  . 

Mirrors  are  forbidden  in  a  priest's  house,  he 
must  forget  that  he  has  a  body.  On  this  point, 
at  least,  the  old  priest  had  observed  the  law, 


30  THE    MOTHER 

and  from  the  road  he  could  have  been  seen 
shaving  himself  by  the  open  window,  behind 
the  panes  of  which  he  had  hung  a  black  cloth 
to  throw  up  the  reflection.  But  Paul,  on  the 
contrary,  was  attracted  to  the  mirror  as  to  a 
well  from  whose  depths  a  face  smiled  up  at 
him,  luring  him  down  to  perish.  But  it  was 
the  mother's  own  scornful  face  and  threatening 
eyes  that  the  little  mirror  reflected  now,  and 
with  rising  anger  she  put  out  her  hand  and  tore 
it  from  its  nail.  Then  she  flung  the  window 
wide  open  and  let  the  wind  blow  in  to  purify 
the  room:  the  books  and  papers  on  the  table 
seemed  to  come  alive,  twisting  and  circling  into 
every  corner,  the  fringe  of  the  bed-cover  shook 
and  waved  and  the  flame  of  the  lamp  flickered 
almost  to  extinction. 

She  gathered  up  the  books  and  papers  and 
replaced  them  on  the  table.  Then  she  noticed 
an  open  Bible,  with  a  coloured  picture  that  she 
greatly  admired,  and  she  bent  down  to  examine 
it  more  closely.  There  was  Jesus  the  Good 
Shepherd  watering  His  sheep  at  a  spring  in  the 
midst  of  a  forest.  Between  the  trees,  against 
the  background  of  blue  sky,  could  be  seen  a 


THE    MOTHER  31 

distant  city,  red  in  the  light  of  the  setting  sun, 
a  holy  city,  the  City  of  Salvation. 

There  had  been  a  time  when  he  used  to 
study  far  into  the  night;  the  stars  over  the 
ridge  looked  in  at  his  window  and  the  nightin- 
gales sang  him  their  plaintive  notes.  For  the 
first  year  after  they  came  to  the  village  he  often 
talked  of  leaving  and  going  back  into  the 
world:  then  he  settled  down  into  a  sort  of 
waking  sleep,  in  the  shadow  of  the  ridge  and 
the  murmur  of  the  trees.  Thus  seven  years 
passed,  and  his  mother  never  suggested  they 
should  move  elsewhere,  for  they  were  so  happy 
in  the  little  village  that  seemed  to  her  the  most 
beautiful  in  all  the  world,  because  her  Paul  was 
its  saviour  and  its  king. 

She  closed  the  window  and  replaced  the  mir- 
ror, which  showed  her  now  her  own  face  grown 
white  and  drawn,  her  eyes  dim  with  tears. 
Again  she  asked  herself  if  perhaps  she  were 
not  mistaken.  She  turned  towards  a  crucifix 
which  hung  on  the  wall  above  a  kneeling-stool, 
raising  the  lamp  above  her  head  that  she  might 
see  it  better;  and  midst  the  shadows  that  her 
movements  threw  on  the  wall  it  seemed  as 


32  THE    MOTHER 

though  the  Christ,  thin  and  naked,  stretched 
upon  the  Cross,  bowed  His  head  to  hear  her 
prayer.  And  great  tears  coursed  down  her 
face  and  fell  upon  her  dress,  heavy  as  tears  of 
blood. 

"Lord,  save  us  all!  Save  Thou  me,  even 
me.  Thou  Who  hangest  there  pale  and  blood- 
less, Thou  Whose  Face  beneath  its  crown  of 
thorns  is  sweet  as  a  wild  rose,  Thou  Who  art 
above  our  wretched  passions,  save  us  alll" 

Then  she  hurried  out  of  the  room  and  went 
downstairs.  She  passed  through  the  tiny  din- 
ing-room, where  drowsy  flies,  startled  by  the 
lamp,  buzzed  heavily  round  and  the  howling 
wind  and  swaying  trees  outside  beat  like  rain 
upon  the  small,  high  window  and  thence  into 
the  kitchen,  where  she  sat  down  before  the  fire, 
already  banked  up  with  cinders  for  the  night. 
Even  there  the  wind  seemed  to  penetrate  by 
every  crack  and  cranny,  so  that  instead  of  being 
in  the  long  low  kitchen,  whose  uneven  ceiling 
was  supported  by  smoke-blackened  beams  and 
rafters,  she  felt  as  if  she  were  in  a  rocking  boat 
adrift  on  a  stormy  sea.  And  although  deter- 
mined to  wait  up  for  her  son  and  begin  the 


THE    MOTHER  33 

battle  at  once,  she  still  fought  against  convic- 
tion and  tried  to  persuade  herself  that  she  was 
mistaken. 

She  felt  it  unjust  that  God  should  send  her 
such  sorrow,  and  she  went  back  over  her  past 
life,  day  by  day,  trying  to  find  some  reason 
for  her  present  unhappiness;  but  all  her  days 
had  passed  hard  and  clean  as  the  beads  of  the 
rosary  she  held  in  her  shaking  fingers.  She  had 
done  no  wrong,  unless  perchance  sometimes 
in  her  thoughts. 

She  saw  herself  again  as  an  orphan  in  the 
house  of  poor  relations,  in  that  same  village,  ill- 
treated  by  every  one,  toiling  barefoot,  bearing 
heavy  burdens  on  her  head,  washing  clothes 
in  the  river,  or  carrying  corn  to  the  mill.  An 
elderly  man,  a  relative  of  hers,  was  employed 
by  the  miller,  and  each  time  she  went  down  to 
the  mill,  if  there  was  nobody  to  see  him,  he 
followed  her  into  the  bushes  and  tufts  of 
tamarisk  and  kissed  her  by  force,  pricking  her 
face  with  his  bristly  beard  and  covering  her 
with  flour.  When  she  told  of  this,  the  aunts 
with  whom  she  lived  would  not  let  her  go  to  the 
mill  again.  Then  one  day  the  man,  who  ordi- 


34  THE    MOTHER 

narily  never  came  up  to  the  village,  suddenly 
appeared  at  the  house  and  said  he  wished  to 
marry  the  girl.  The  other  members  of  the 
family  laughed  at  him,  slapped  him  on  the  back 
and  brushed  the  flour  off  his  coat  with  a  broom. 
But  he  took  no  notice  of  their  jests  and  kept 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  girl.  At  last  she  consented 
to  marry  him,  but  she  continued  to  live  with  her 
relations  and  went  down  each  day  to  the  mill  to 
see  her  husband,  who  always  gave  her  a  small 
measure  of  flour  unknown  to  his  master.  Then 
one  day  as  she  was  going  home  with  her  apron 
full  of  flour  she  felt  something  move  beneath 
it.  Startled,  she  dropped  the  corners  of  her 
apron  and  all  the  flour  was  scattered,  and  she 
was  so  giddy  that  she  had  to  sit  down  on  the 
ground.  She  thought  it  was  an  earthquake,  the 
houses  rocked  before  her  eyes,  the  path  went  up 
and  down  and  she  flung  herself  prone  on  the 
floury  grass.  Then  she  got  up  and  ran  home 
laughing,  yet  afraid,  for  she  knew  she  was  with 

child. 

*  *  *  *  * 

/ — 

She  was  left  a  widow  before  her  Paul  was 

old  enough  to  talk,  but  his  bright  baby  eyes 


THE    MOTHER  35 

followed  her  everywhere,  and  she  had  mourned 
for  her  husband  as  for  a  good  old  man  who  had 
been  kind  to  her,  but  nothing  more.  She  was 
soon  consoled,  however,  for  a  cousin  proposed 
that  they  should  go  together  to  the  town  and 
there  take  service. 

"In  that  way  you  will  be  able  to  support 
your  boy,  and  later  on  you  can  send  for  him 
and  put  him  to  school." 

And  so  she  worked  and  lived  only  for  him. 

She  had  lacked  neither  the  occasion  nor  the 
inclination  to  indulge  in  pleasures,  if  not  in  sin. 
Master  and  servants,  peasant  and  townsman, 
all  had  tried  to  catch  her  as  once  the  old  kins- 
man had  caught  her  amongst  the  tamarisks. 
Man  is  a  hunter  and  woman  his  prey,  but  she 
had  succeeded  in  evading  all  pitfalls  and  keep- 
ing herself  pure  and  good,  since  she  already 
looked  on  herself  as  the  mother  of  a  priest. 
Then  wherefore  now  this  chastisement,  O 
Lord? 

She  bowed  her  weary  head  and  the  tears 
rolled  down  her  face  and  fell  on  the  rosary  in 
her  lap. 

Gradually  she  grew  drowsy,  and  confused 


36  THE    MOTHER 

memories  floated  through  her  mind.  She 
thought  she  was  in  the  big  warm  kitchen  of  the 
Seminary,  where  she  had  been  servant  for  ten 
years  and  where  she  had  succeeded  in  getting 
her  Paul  admitted  as  student.  Black  figures 
went  silently  to  and  fro,  and  in  the  passage 
outside  she  could  hear  the  smothered  laughter 
and  larking  the  boys  indulged  in  when  there 
was  nobody  to  reprove  them.  Tired  to  death, 
she  sat  beside  a  window  opening  on  to  a  dark 
yard,  a  duster  on  her  lap,  but  too  weary  to 
move  so  much  as  a  finger  towards  her  work. 
In  the  dream,  too,  she  was  waiting  for  Paul, 
who  had  slipped  out  of  the  Seminary  secretly 
without  telling  her  where  he  was  going. 

"If  they  find  out  they  will  expel  him  at 
once,"  she  thought,  and  she  waited  anxiously 
till  the  house  was  quite  quiet  that  she  might 
let  him  in  without  being  observed. 

Suddenly  she  awoke  and  found  herself  back 
in  the  narrow  presbytery  kitchen,  shaken  by  the 
wind  like  a  ship  at  sea,  but  the  impression  of 
the  dream  was  so  strong  that  she  felt  on  her 
lap  for  the  duster  and  listened  for  the  smoth- 
ered laughter  of  the  boys  knocking  each  other 


THE    MOTHER  37 

about  in  the  passage.  Then  in  a  moment  reality 
gripped  her  again,  and  she  thought  Paul  must 
have  come  in  while  she  was  fast  asleep  and  thus 
succeeded  in  escaping  her  notice.  And  actually, 
midst  all  the  creakings  and  shaking  caused  by 
the  wind,  she  could  hear  steps  inside  the  house : 
some  one  was  coming  downstairs,  crossing  the 
ground-floor  rooms,  entering  the  kitchen.  She 
thought  she  was  still  dreaming  when  a  short, 
stout  priest,  with  a  week's  growth  of  beard 
upon  his  chin,  stood  before  her  and  looked 
her  in  the  face  with  a  smile.  The  few  teeth  he 
had  left  were  blackened  with  too  much  smok- 
ing, his  light-coloured  eyes  pretended  to  be 
fierce,  but  she  could  tell  that  he  was  really 
laughing,  and  immediately  she  knew  him  for 
the  former  priest — but  still  she  did  not  feel 
afraid. 

"It  is  only  a  dream,"  she  told  herself,  but  in 
reality  she  knew  she  only  said  that  to  give  her- 
self courage  and  that  it  was  no  phantom,  but 
a  fact. 

"Sit  down,"  she  said,  moving  her  stool  aside 
to  make  room  for  him  in  front  of  the  fire. 
He  sat  down  and  drew  up  his  cassock  a  little, 


38  THE    MOTHER 

exhibiting  a  pair  of  discoloured  and  worn  blue 
stockings. 

"Since  you  are  sitting  here  doing  nothing, 
you  might  mend  my  stockings  for  me,  Maria 
Maddalena :  I  have  no  woman  to  look  after 
me,"  he  said  simply.  And  she  thought  to 
herself: 

"Can  this  be  the  terrible  priest?  That 
shows  I  am  still  dreaming." 

And  then  she  tried  to  make  him  betray 
himself. 

"If  you  are  dead  you  have  no  need  of  stock- 
ings," she  said. 

"How  do  you  know  I  am  dead?  I  am  very 
much  alive,  on  the  contrary,  and  sitting  here. 
And  before  long  I  am  going  to  drive  both  you 
and  your  son  out  of  my  parish.  It  was  a  bad 
thing  for  you,  coming  here,  you  had  better  have 
brought  him  up  to  follow  his  father's  trade. 
But  you  are  an  ambitious  woman,  and  you 
wanted  to  come  back  as  mistress  where  you  had 
lived  as  a  servant :  so  now  you  will  see  what  you 
have  gained  by  it!" 

"We  will  go  away,"  she  answered  humbly 
and  sadly.  "Indeed,  I  want  to  go.  Man  or 


THE    MOTHER  39 

ghost,  whatever  you  are,  have  patience  for  a 
few  days  and  we  shall  be  gone." 

"And  where  can  you  go?"  said  the  old 
priest.  "Wherever  you  go  it  will  be  the  same 
thing.  Take  rather  the  advice  of  one  who 
knows  what  he  is  talking  about  and  let  your 
Paul  follow  his  destiny.  Let  him  know  the 
woman,  otherwise  the  same  thing  will  befall 
him  that  befell  me.  When  I  was  young  I 
would  have  nothing  to  do  with  women,  nor 
with  any  other  kind  of  pleasure.  I  only  thought 
of  winning  Paradise,  and  I  failed  to  perceive 
that  Paradise  is  here  on  earth.  When  I  did 
perceive  it,  it  was  too  late:  my  arm  could  no 
longer  reach  up  to  gather  the  fruit  of  the  tree 
and  my  knees  would  not  bend  that  I  might 
quench  my  thirst  at  the  spring.  So  then  I 
began  to  drink  wine,  to  smoke  a  pipe  and  to 
play  cards  with  all  the  rascals  of  the  place. 
You  call  them  rascals,  but  I  call  them  honest 
lads  who  enjoy  life  as  they  find  it.  It  does 
one  good  to  be  in  their  company,  it  diffuses 
a  little  warmth  and  merriment,  like  the  com- 
pany of  boys  on  a  holiday.  The  only  difference 
is  that  it  is  always  holiday  for  them,  and 


40  THE    MOTHER 

therefore  they  are  even  merrier  and  more 
careless  than  the  boys,  who  cannot  forget  that 
they  must  soon  go  back  to  school." 

While  he  was  talking  thus  the  mother 
thought  to  herself: 

"He  is  only  saying  these  things  in  order  to 
persuade  me  to  leave  my  Paul  alone  and  let 
him  be  damned.  He  has  been  sent  by  his 
friend  and  master,  the  Devil,  and  I  must  be 
on  my  guard." 

Yet,  in  spite  of  herself,  she  listened  to  him 
readily  and  found  herself  almost  agreeing  with 
what  he  said.  She  reflected  that,  in  spite  of 
all  her  efforts,  Paul  too  might  "take  a  holiday," 
and  instinctively  her  mother's  heart  instantly 
sought  excuses  for  him. 

"You  may  be  right,"  she  said  with  increased 
sadness  and  humility,  which  now,  however,  was 
partly  pretence.  "I  am  only  a  poor,  ignorant 
woman  and  don't  understand  very  much:  but 
one  thing  I  am  sure  of,  that  God  sent  us  into 
the  world  to  suffer." 

"God  sent  us  into  the  world  to  enjoy  it. 
He  sends  suffering  to  punish  us  for  not  having 
understood  how  to  enjoy,  and  that  is  the  truth, 


THE    MOTHER  41 

you  fool  of  a  woman  I  God  created  the  world 
with  all  its  beauty  and  gave  it  to  man  for  his 
pleasure :  so  much  the  worse  for  him  if  he  does 
not  understand !  But  why  should  I  trouble  to 
explain  this  to  you — all  I  mind  about  is  turning 
you  out  of  this  place,  you  and  your  Paul,  and 
so  much  the  worse  for  you  if  you  want  to 
stop!" 

"We  are  going,  never  fear,  we  are  going 
very  soon.  That  I  can  promise  you,  for  it's 
my  wish,  too." 

"You  only  say  that  because  you  are  afraid 
of  me.  But  you  are  wrong  to  be  afraid.  You 
think  that  it  was  I  who  prevented  your  feet 
from  walking  and  your  matches  from  striking: 
and  perhaps  it  was  I,  but  that  is  not  to  say  that 
I  mean  any  harm  to  you  or  your  Paul.  I  only 
want  you  to  go  away.  And  mind,  if  you  do 
not  keep  your  word  you  will  be  sorry !  Well, 
you  will  see  me  again  and  I  shall  remind  you 
of  this  conversation.  Meanwhile,  I  will  leave 
you  my  stockings  to  mend." 

"Very  well,  I  will  mend  them." 

"Then  shut  your  eyes,  for  I  don't  choose 
that  you  should  see  my  bare  legs.  Ha,  haJ" 


42  THE    MOTHER 

he  laughed,  pulling  off  one  shoe  with  the  toe 
of  the  other  and  bending  down  to  draw  off 
his  stockings,  "no  woman  has  ever  seen  my 
bare  flesh,  however  much  they  have  slandered 
me,  and  you  are  too  old  and  ugly  to  be  the 
first.  Here  is  one  stocking,  and  here  is  the 
other;  I  shall  come  and  fetch  them  soon.  .  .  ." 

She  opened  her  eyes  with  a  start.  She  was 
alone  again,  in  the  kitchen  with  the  wind 
howling  round  it. 

"O  Lord,  what  a  dream !"  she  murmured 
with  a  sigh.  Nevertheless,  she  stooped  to  look 
for  the  stockings,  and  she  thought  she  heard 
the  faint  footfall  of  the  ghost  as  it  passed  out 
of  the  kitchen,  vanishing  through  the  closed 
door. 


CHAPTER  III 

WHEN  Paul  left  the  woman's  house  and 
found  himself  out  in  the  meadow  again 
he  too  had  the  sensation  that  there  was  some- 
thing alive,  something  ghostly,  undefinable  in 
the  wind.  It  buffeted  him  about  and  chilled  him 
through  and  through  after  his  ardent  dream 
of  love,  and  as  it  twisted  and  flattened  his  coat 
against  his  body  he  thought  with  a  quiver  of  the 
woman  clinging  to  him  in  a  passionate  embrace. 

When  he  turned  the  corner  by  the  church 
the  fury  of  the  wind  forced  him  to  stop  for  a 
moment,  with  head  bent  before  the  blast,  one 
hand  holding  on  his  hat  and  the  other  clutching 
his  coat  together.  He  had  no  breath  left,  and 
giddiness  overcame  him  as  it  had  overcome  his 
young  mother  that  far-off  day  on  the  way  from 
the  mill. 

And  with  mingled  excitement  and  loathing  he 
felt  that  something  terrible  and  great  was  born 
in  him  at  that  moment:  for  the  first  time  he 

43 


44  THE    MOTHER 

realized  clearly  and  unmistakably  that  he  loved 
Agnes  with  an  earthly  love,  and  that  he  gloried 
in  this  love. 

Until  a  few  hours  ago  he  had  been  under  a 
delusion,  persuading  both  himself  and  her  that 
his  love  was  purely  spiritual.  But  he  had  to 
admit  that  it  was  she  who  had  first  let  her  gaze 
linger  upon  him,  that  from  their  earliest  meet- 
ing her  eyes  had  sought  his  with  a  look  that 
implored  his  help  and  his  love.  And  little  by 
little  he  had  yielded  to  the  fascination  of  that 
appeal,  had  been  drawn  to  her  by  pity,  and  the 
solitude  that  surrounded  her  had  brought 
them  together. 

And  after  their  eyes  had  met  their  hands  had 
sought  and  found  each  other,  and  that  night 
they  had  kissed.  And  now  his  blood,  which 
had  flowed  quietly  so  many  years,  rushed 
through  his  veins  like  liquid  fire  and  the  weak 
flesh  yielded,  at  once  the  vanquished  and  the 
victor. 

The  woman  had  proposed  that  they  two 
should  secretly  leave  the  village  and  live  or 
die  together.  In  the  intoxication  of  the 
moment  he  had  agreed  to  the  proposal  and 


THE    MOTHER  45 

they  were  to  meet  again  the  following  night 
to  settle  their  plans.  But  now  the  reality  of 
the  outside  world,  and  that  wind  that  seemed 
trying  to  strip  him  bare,  tore  away  the  veil 
of  self-deception.  Breathless,  he  stood  before 
the  church  door;  he  was  icy  cold,  and  felt  as 
though  he  were  standing  naked  there  in  the 
midst  of  the  little  village,  and  that  all  his  poor 
parishioners,  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  weary, 
were  beholding  him  thus  in  their  dreams, 
naked,  and  black  with  sin. 

Yet  all  the  time  he  was  thinking  how  best 
to  plan  his  flight  with  the  woman.  She  had 
told  him  that  she  possessed  much  money.  .  .  . 
Then  suddenly  he  felt  impelled  to  go  back  to 
her  that  instant  and  dissuade  her;  he  actually 
walked  a  few  steps  beside  the  wall  where  his 
mother  had  passed  shortly  before,  then  turned 
back  in  despair  and  fell  on  his  knees  in  front 
of  the  church  door  and  leaned  his  head  against 
it,  crying  low,  "O  God,  save  me  I"  and  his  black 
cloak  was  blown  flapping  about  his  shoulders 
as  he  knelt  there,  like  a  vulture  nailed  alive 
upon  the  door. 

His  whole  soul  was  fighting  savagely,  with 


46  THE    MOTHER 

a  violence  greater  even  than  that  of  the  wind 
on  those  high  hills;  it  was  the  supreme  struggle 
of  the  blind  instinct  of  the  flesh  against  the 
dominion  of  the  spirit. 

After  a  few  moments  he  rose  to  his  feet, 
uncertain  still  which  of  the  two  had  conquered. 
But  his  mind  was  clearer  and  he  recognized 
the  real  nature  of  his  motives,  confessing  to  him- 
self that  what  swayed  him  most,  more  than  the 
fear  and  the  love  of  God,  more  than  the  desire 
for  promotion  and  the  hatred  of  sin,  was  his 
terror  of  the  consequences  of  an  open  scandal. 

The  realization  that  he  judged  himself  so 
mercilessly  encouraged  him  to  hope  still  for 
salvation.  But  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  he 
knew  he  was  henceforth  bound  to  that  woman 
as  to  life  itself,  that  her  image  would  be  with 
him  in  his  house,  that  he  would  walk  at  her 
side  by  day  and  at  night  sleep  entangled  in 
the  inextricable  meshes  of  her  long  dark  hair. 
And  beneath  his  sorrow  and  remorse,  deeper 
and  stronger  still,  he  felt  a  tumult  of  joy  glow 
through  his  inmost  being  as  a  subterranean 
fire  burns  within  the  earth. 

Directly  he  opened  the  presbytery  door  he 


THE    MOTHER  47 

perceived  the  streak  of  light  that  issued  from 
the  kitchen  and  shone  across  the  little  dining- 
room  into  the  entrance  hall.  Then  he  saw 
his  mother  sitting  by  the  dead  ashes,  as  though 
watching  by  a  corpse,  and  with  a  pang  of  grief, 
a  grief  that  never  left  him  again,  he  instantly 
knew  the  whole  truth. 

He  followed  the  streak  of  light  through  the 
little  dining-room,  faltered  a  second  at  the 
kitchen  door,  and  then  advanced  to  the  hearth 
with  hands  outstretched  as  though  to  save  him- 
self from  falling. 

"Why  have  you  not  gone  to  bed?"  he  asked 
curtly. 

His  mother  turned  to  look  at  him,  her  dream- 
haunted  face  still  deathly  pale;  yet  she  was 
steady  and  quiet,  almost  stern,  and  while  her 
eyes  sought  those  of  her  son,  his  tried  to  evade 
her  gaze. 

"I  was  waiting  up  for  you,  Paul.  Where 
have  you  been?" 

He  knew  instinctively  that  every  word  that 
was  not  strictly  true  would  be  only  a  useless 
farce  between  them;  yet  he  was  forced  to  lie  to 
her. 


48  THE    MOTHER 

"I  have  been  with  a  sick  person,"  he  replied 
quickly. 

For  an  instant  his  deep  voice  seemed  to 
disperse  the  evil  dream;  for  an  instant  only, 
and  the  mother's  face  was  transfigured  with 
joy.  Then  the  shadow  fell  again  on  face  and 
heart. 

"Paul,"  she  said  gently,  lowering  her  eyes 
with  a  feeling  of  shame,  but  with  no  hesitation 
in  her  speech,  "Paul,  come  nearer  to  me,  I  have 
something  to  say  to  you." 

And  although  he  moved  no  nearer  to  her, 
she  went  on  speaking  in  a  low  voice,  as  though 
close  to  his  ear: 

"I  know  where  you  have  been.  For  many 
nights  now  I  have  heard  you  go  out,  and  to- 
night I  followed  you  and  saw  where  you  went. 
Paul,  think  of  what  you  are  doing!" 

He  did  not  answer,  made  no  sign  that  he 
had  heard.  His  mother  raised  her  eyes  and 
beheld  him  standing  tall  and  straight  above 
her,  pale  as  death,  his  shadow  cast  by  the  lamp 
upon  the  wall  behind  him,  motionless  as  though 
transfixed  upon  a  cross.  And  she  longed  for 


THE    MOTHER  49 

him  to  cry  out  and  reproach  her,  to  protest  his 
innocence. 

But  he  was  remembering  his  soul's  appeal  as 
he  knelt  before  the  church  door,  and  now  God 
had  heard  his  cry  and  had  sent  his  own  mother 
to  him  to  save  him.  He  wanted  to  bow  before 
her,  to  fall  at  her  knee  and  implore  her  to  lead 
him  away  from  the  village,  then  and  there, 
immediately;  and  at  the  same  time  he  was 
shaking  with  rage  and  humiliation,  humiliation 
at  finding  his  weakness  exposed,  rage  at  having 
been  watched  and  followed.  Yet  he  grieved 
for  the  sorrow  he  was  causing  her.  Then  sud- 
denly he  remembered  that  he  had  not  only  to 
save  himself,  but  to  save  appearances  also. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  going  close  to  her  and 
placing  his  hand  on  her  head,  "I  tell  you  that 
I  have  been  with  some  one  who  is  ill." 
"There  is  nobody  ill  in  that  house." 
"Not  all  sick  persons  are  in  bed." 
"Then  in  that  case  you  yourself  are  more 
ill  than  the  woman  you  went  to  see,  and  you 
must  take  care  of  yourself.     Paul,  I  am  only 
an  ignorant  woman,  but  I  am  your  mother,  and 


50  THE    MOTHER 

I  tell  you  that  sin  is  an  illness  worse  than  any 
other,  because  it  attacks  the  soul.  Moreover," 
she  added,  taking  his  hand  and  drawing  him 
down  towards  her  that  he  might  hear  her  bet- 
ter, "it  is  not  yourself  only  that  you  have  to 
save,  O  child  of  God  .  .  .  remember  that  you 
must  not  destroy  her  soul  .  .  .  nor  bring  her 
to  harm  in  this  life  either." 

He  was  bending  over  her,  but  at  these  words 
he  shot  upright  again  like  a  steel  spring.  His 
mother  had  cut  him  to  the  quick.  Yes,  it  was 
true;  during  all  that  hour  of  perturbation  since 
he  had  quitted  the  woman  he  had  thought  only 
of  himself. 

He  tried  to  withdraw  his  hand  from  his 
mother's,  so  hard  and  cold,  but  she  grasped  it 
so  imperatively  that  he  felt  as  though  he  had 
been  arrested  and  were  being  led  bound  to 
prison.  Then  his  thoughts  turned  again  to 
God;  it  was  God  who  had  bound  him,  there- 
fore  he  must  submit  to  be  led,  but  nevertheless 
he  felt  the  rebellion  and  desperation  of  the 
guilty  prisoner  who  sees  no  way  of  escape. 

"Leave  me  alone,"  he  said  roughly,  dragging 
his  hand  away  by  force,  "I  am  no  longer  a  boy 


THE    MOTHER  51 

and  know  myself  what  is  good  or  bad  for 
me!" 

Then  the  mother  felt  as  though  she  were 
turned  to  stone,  for  he  had  practically  con- 
fessed his  fault. 

"No,  Paul,  you  don't  see  the  wrong  you  have 
done.  If  you  did  see  it  you  would  not  speak 
like  that." 

"Then  how  should  I  speak?" 

"You  would  not  shout  like  that,  but  you 
would  assure  me  there  is  nothing  wrong  be- 
tween you  and  that  woman.  But  that  is  just 
what  you  don't  tell  me,  because  you  cannot  do 
so  conscientiously,  and  therefore  it  is  better  you 
should  say  nothing  at  all.  Don't  speak!  I 
don't  ask  it  of  you  now,  but  think  well  what 
you  are  about,  Paul." 

Paul  made  no  reply,  but  moved  slowly  from 
his  mother's  side  and  stood  in  the  middle  of 
the  kitchen  waiting  for  her  to  go  on  speaking. 

"Paul,  I  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  you, 
and  I  have  no  wish  to  say  anything  more.  But 
I  shall  talk  with  God  about  you." 

Then  he  sprang  back  to  her  side  with  blazing 
eyes  as  though  he  were  about  to  strike  her. 


52  THE    MOTHER 

"Enough !"  he  cried,  "you  will  be  wise  never 
to  speak  of  this  again,  neither  to  me  nor  to 
anyone  else;  and  keep  your  fancies  to  your- 
self!" 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  stern  and  resolute, 
seized  him  by  the  arms  and  forced  him  to  look 
her  straight  in  the  eyes;  then  she  let  him  go 
and  sat  down  again,  her  hands  gripping  each 
other  tightly  in  her  lap. 

Paul  moved  towards  the  door,  then  turned 
and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  kitchen. 
The  moaning  of  the  wind  outside  made  an 
accompaniment  to  the  rustle  of  his  clothes, 
which  was  like  the  rustle  of  a  woman's  dress, 
for  he  wore  a  cassock  made  of  silk  and  his 
cloak  was  of  the  very  finest  material.  And  in 
that  moment  of  indecision,  when  he  felt  him- 
self caught  in  a  whirlpool  of  conflicting  emo- 
tions, even  that  silken  rustle  seemed  to  speak 
and  warn  him  that  henceforth  his  life  would 
be  but  a  maze  of  errors  and  light  things  and 
vileness.  Everything  spoke  to  him;  the  wind 
outside,  that  recalled  the  long  loneliness  of  his 
youth,  and  inside  the  house  the  mournful  figure 
of  his  mother,  the  sound  of  his  own  steps,  the 


THE    MOTHER  53 

sight  of  his  own  shadow  on  the  floor.  To  and 
fro  he  walked,  to  and  fro,  treading  on  his 
shadow  as  he  sought  to  overcome  and  stamp 
down  his  own  self.  He  thought  with  pride 
that  he  had  no  need  of  any  supernatural  aid, 
such  as  he  had  invoked  to  save  him,  and  then 
immediately  this  pride  filled  him  with  terror. 

"Get  up  and  go  to  bed,"  he  said,  coming 
back  to  his  mother's  side ;  and  then,  seeing  that 
she  did  not  move  but  sat  with  head  bowed  as 
though  asleep,  he  bent  down  to  look  more 
closely  in  her  face  and  perceived  that  she  was 
weeping  silently. 

"Mother!" 

"No,"  she  said,  without  moving,  "I  shall 
never  mention  this  thing  to  you  again,  neither 
to  you  nor  to  anyone  else.  But  I  shall  not 
stir  from  this  place  except  to  leave  the  presby- 
tery and  the  village,  never  to  return,  unless 
you  swear  to  me  that  you  will  never  set  foot 
in  that  house  again." 

He  raised  himself  from  his  bending  position, 
overtaken  again  by  that  feeling  of  giddiness, 
and  again  superstition  took  hold  of  him,  urging 
him  to  promise  whatever  his  mother  asked  of 


THE    MOTHER 

him,  since  it  was  God  Himself  who  was  speak- 
ing by  her  mouth.  And  simultaneously  a  flood 
of  bitter  words  rose  to  his  lips,  and  he  wanted 
to  cry  out  upon  his  mother,  to  throw  the  blame 
on  her  and  reproach  her  for  having  brought 
him  from  his  native  village  and  set  his  feet 
upon  a  way  that  was  not  his.  But  what  would 
be  the  use?  She  would  not  even  understand. 
Well,  well !  .  .  .  With  one  hand  he  made  a 
gesture  as  though  brushing  away  the  shadows 
from  before  his  eyes,  then  suddenly  he  stretched 
out  this  hand  over  his  mother's  head,  and  in 
his  imagination  saw  his  opened  fingers  extend 
in  luminous  rays  above  her: 

"Mother,  I  swear  to  you  that  I  will  never 
enter  that  house  again." 

And  immediately  he  left  the  kitchen,  feeling 
that  here  was  the  end  of  everything.  He  was 
saved.  But  as  he  crossed  the  adjoining  dining- 
room  he  heard  his  mother  weeping  unrestrain- 
edly, as  though  she  were  weeping  for  the  dead. 
***** 

Back  in  his  room,  the  scent  of  roses  and  the 
sight  of  the  various  objects  strewn  about 
which  were  associated  with  his  passion,  impreg- 


THE    MOTHER  55 

nated  and  coloured  by  it,  as  it  were,  shook 
him  afresh.  He  moved  here  and  there  without 
any  reason,  opened  the  window  and  thrust  his 
head  out  into  the  wind,  feeling  as  helpless  as 
one  of  the  million  leaves  whirled  about  in 
space,  now  in  the  dark  shadow,  now  in  the 
bright  light  of  the  moon,  playthings  of  the 
winds  and  clouds.  At  last  he  drew  himself 
up  and  closed  the  window,  saying  aloud  as 
he  did  so: 

"Let  us  be  men!" 

He  stood  erect  to  his  full  height,  numb  as 
though  all  his  body  were  cold  and  hard  and 
enclosed  in  an  armour  of  pride.  He  desired 
no  more  to  feel  the  sensations  of  the  flesh, 
nor  the  sorrow  nor  the  joy  of  sacrifice,  nor 
the  sadness  of  his  loneliness;  he  had  no  wish 
even  to  kneel  before  God  and  receive  the  word 
of  approval  granted  to  the  willing  servant. 
He  asked  nothing  from  anyone;  he  wanted 
only  to  go  forward  in  the  straight  way, 
alone  and  hopeless.  Yet  he_jwas  afraid  of 
going  to  bed  and  putting  out  the  light,  and 
instead  he  sat  down  and  began  to  read  St. 
Paul's  Epistle  to  the  Corinthians:  but  the 


56  THE    MOTHER 

printed  words  fled  his  gaze,  they  swelled  and 
shrank  and  danced  up  and  down  before  his 
eyes.  Why  had  his  mother  wept  so  bitterly, 
after  he  had  sworn  an  oath  to  her?  What 
could  she  have  understood?  Ah,  yes,  she 
understood;  the  mother's  heart  understood 
only  too  well  the  mortal  anguish  of  her  son, 
his  renunciation  of  life  itself. 

Suddenly  a  wave  of  red  overspread  his  face, 
and  he  raised  his  head,  listening  to  the  wind. 

"There  was  no  need  to  have  sworn,"  he 
said  to  himself  with  a  doubtful  smile,  "the 
really  strong  man  never  swears.  Whoever 
takes  an  oath,  as  I  did,  is  also  ready  to  break 
his  oath,  even  as  I  am  ready." 

And  instantly  he  knew  that  the  struggle  was 
only  really  beginning,  and  so  great  was  his 
consternation  that  he  rose  from  his  seat  and 
went  to  look  at  himself  in  the  mirror. 

_l!Here_— thou  standest,  the  man  appointed 
by  God,  and  if  thou  wilt  not  give  thyself 
wholly  to  Him,  then  the  spirit  of  evil  will  take 
possession  of  thee  for  ever." 

Then  he  staggered  to  his  narrow  bed  and, 
dressed  as  he  was,  flung  himself  down  upon 


THE    MOTHER  57 

it  and  burst  into  tears.  He  wept  silently  that 
his  mother  might  not  hear  him,  and  that  he 
might  not  hear  his  own  crying,  but  his  heart 
within  him  cried  aloud  and  he  was  wrung  with 
inward  grief. 

"O  God,  take  me,  bring  me  out  of  this  I" 
And  the   uttered  words  brought  him   real 
relief,   as  though  he   had  found   a  plank  of 

salvation  in  the  midst  of  that  sea  of  sorrow. 

***** 

. 

The  crisis  over  he  began  to  reflect.  Every- 
thing seemed  clear  to  him  now,  like  a  landscape 
seen  from  a  window  in  the  full  light  of  the 
sun.  He  was  a  priest,  he  believed  in  God, 
he  had  wedded  the  Church  and  was  vowed 
to  chastity,  he  was  like  a  married  man  and 
had  no  right  to  betray  his  wife.  Why  he  had 
fallen  in  love  with  that  woman  and  still  lovedj 
her  he  did  not  exactly  know.  Perhaps  he  had 
reached  a  sort  of  physical  crisis,  when  the 
youth  and  strength  of  his  twenty-eight  years 
awoke  suddenly  from  its  prolonged  sleep  and 
yearned  towards  Agnes  because  she  had  the 
closest  affinity  with  him,  and  because  she  too, 
no  longer  very  young,  had  like  him  been 


58  THE    MOTHER 

deprived  of  life  and  love,  shut  up  in  her  house 
as  in  a  convent. 

Thus  from  the  very  first  it  had  been  love 
masquerading  as  friendship.  They  had  been 
caught  in  a  net  of  smiles  and  glances,  and 
the  very  impossibility  of  there  being  any  ques- 
tion of  love  between  them  drew  them  together: 
nobody  entertained  the  faintest  suspicion  of 
their  relationship  to  each  other,  and  they  met 
without  emotion,  without  fear  and  without 
desire.  Yet  little  by  little  desire  crept  into 
that  love  of  theirs,  chaste  and  pure  as  a  pool 
of  still  water  beneath  a  wall  that  suddenly 
crumbles  and  falls  in  ruins. 

All  these  things  passed  through  his  mind  as 
he  probed  deep  into  his  conscience  and  found 
the  truth.  He  knew  that  from  the  first  glance 
he  had  desired  the  woman,  from  the  first 
glance  he  had  possessed  her  in  his  heart,  and 
all  the  rest  had  been  only  self-deception 
whereby  he  had  sought  to  justify  himself  in 
his  own  eyes. 

Thus  it  was,  and  he  was  forced  to  acknowl- 
edge the  truth.  Thus  it  was,  because  it  is  man's 
nature  to  suffer,  to  love,  to  find  his  mate  and 


fHE    MOTHER  59 

have  her  and  to  suffer  again;  to  do  good  and 
receive  it,  to  do  evil  and  receive  it,  this  is  the 
life  of  man.  Yet  all  his  reflections  lifted  not 
one  iota  of  the  anguish  that  weighed  upon  his 
heart;  and  now  he  comprehended  the  true 
meaning  of  that  anguish :  it  was  the  bitterness 
of  death,  for  to  renounce  love  and  the  posses- 
sion of  Agnes  was  to  renounce  life  itself. 
Then  his  thoughts  went  further:  "Was  not 
even  this  vain  and  futile?  When  the  momen- 
tary pleasure  of  love  is  past,  the  spirit  resumes 
mastery  over  itself,  and,  with  a  more  intense 
longing  for  solitude  than  before,  it  takes 
refuge  again  within  its  prison-house,  the  mor- 
tal body  that  clothes  it.  Why,  therefore, 
should  he  be  made  unhappy  by  this  loneliness? 
Had  he  not  accepted  and  endured  it  for  so 
many  years,  all  the  best  years  of  his  life? 
Even  supposing  he  could  really  escape  with 
Agnes  and  marry  her,  would  he  not  always  be 
alone  within  himself  just  the  same  .  .  .  ?" 

Yet  the  mere  fact  of  pronouncing  her  name, 
the  bare  idea  of  the  possibility  of  living  with 
her,  made  him  spring  up  in  a  fever  of  excite- 
ment. In  imagination  again  he  saw  her 


60  THE    MOTHER 

stretched  beside  him,  in  imagination  he  held 
out  his  arms  to  draw  her  close  to  him,  slender 
and  supple  as  a  reed  in  the  stream;  he  whis- 
pered sweet  words  into  the  little  hollow  be- 
hind her  ear,  covered  his  face  with  her  loosened 
hair,  warm  and  scented  like  the  flowers  of  the 
wild  saffron.  And  biting  hard  into  his  pillow, 
he  repeated  to  her  all  the  Song  of  Songs,  and 
when  this  was  ended  he  told  her  he  would  come 
back  to  her  the  next  day,  that  he  was  glad  to 
grieve  his  mother  and  his  God,  glad  that  he 
had  sworn  an  oath  and  given  himself  over  to 
remorse,  to  superstition  and  to  fear,  for  now 
he  could  break  loose  from  everything  and  re- 
turn to  her. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THEN  he  grew  calmer  and  began  to  re- 
flect again. 

As  a  sick  man  is  relieved  to  know  at  least 
the  nature  of  his  malady,  so  Paul  would  have 
been  relieved  to  know  at  least  why  all  these 
things  had  befallen  him,  and  like  his  mother, 
he  went  over  all  the  story  of  his  past  life. 

The  moaning  of  the  wind  outside  mingled 
with  his  earliest  memories,  faint  and  indistinct. 
He  saw  himself  in  a  courtyard,  where,  he  did 
not  know,  but  perhaps  the  courtyard  of  the 
house  where  his  mother  was  a  servant,  and 
he  was  climbing  on  the  wall  with  other  boys. 
The  top  of  the  wall  was  edged  with  pieces  of 
glass  as  sharp  as  knives,  but  this  did  not  pre- 
vent the  boys  from  scrambling  up  to  look  over, 
even  though  they  cut  their  hands.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  there  was  a  certain  daring 
pleasure  in  wounding  themselves,  and  they 

showed  each  other  their  blood  and  then  dried 
61 


62  THE    MOTHER 

it  beneath  their  armpits,  under  the  delusion 
that  nobody  would  notice  their  cut  hands. 
From  the  top  of  the  wall  they  could  see  nothing 
except  the  street,  into  which  they  were  per- 
fectly free  to  go;  but  they  preferred  climbing 
on  to  the  wall  because  that  was  forbidden,  and 
they  amused  themselves  by  throwing  stones  at 
the  few  people  who  passed  and  then  hiding, 
their  sensations  divided  between  delight  in 
their  own  boldness  and  their  fear  of  being 
discovered.  A  deaf  and  dumb  girl,  who  was 
also  a  cripple,  used  to  sit  by  the  wood  pile  at 
the  bottom  of  the  courtyard,  and  from  there 
she  used  to  watch  them  with  an  expression  at 
once  imploring  and  severe  in  her  large  dark 
eyes.  The  boys  were  afraid  of  her,  but  they 
did  not  dare  to  molest  her;  on  the  contrary, 
they  lowered  their  voices  as  though  she  could 
hear  them  and  sometimes  they  even  invited 
her  to  play  with  them.  Then  the  crippled 
child  used  to  laugh  with  an  almost  insane 
delight,  but  she  never  moved  from  her 
corner. 

In   imagination   he   saw   again   those   dark 
eyes,  in  whose  depths  the  light  of  sorrow  and 


THE    MOTHER  63 

desire  already  shone;  he  saw  them  far  off  at 
the  bottom  of  his  memory  as  at  the  bottom 
of  that  mysterious  courtyard,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  they  resembled  the  eyes  of  Agnes. 
***** 

Then  he  saw  himself  again  in  that  same 
street  where  he  had  thrown  stones  at  the 
passers-by,  but  farther  down,  at  the  turning  of 
a  little  lane  shut  in  by  a  group  of  dilapidated 
old  houses.  His  home  lay  just  between  the 
street  and  the  lane,  in  the  house  of  well-to-do 
people,  all  women  and  all  fat  and  serious;  they 
used  to  close  all  doors  and  windows  at  dusk 
and  they  received  no  visitors  except  other 
women  and  priests,  with  whom  they  used  to 
joke  and  laugh,  but  always  in  a  decorous, 
guarded  manner. 

It  had  been  one  of  these  priests  who  had 
caught  him  by  the  shoulders  one  day,  and 
gripping  him  firmly  between  his  bony  knees 
and  raising  his  timid  face  with  a  vigorous  hand, 
had  asked  him: 

"Is  it  true  that  you  want  to  be  a  priest?" 

The  boy  had  nodded  yes,  and  having  been 
given  a  sacred  picture  and  a  friendly  slap  he 


64  THE    MOTHER 

had  remained  in  a  corner  of  the  room  listening 
to  the  conversation  between  the  priests  and  the 
women.  They  were  discussing  the  parish 
priest  of  Aar  and  describing  how  he  went  out 
hunting  and  smoked  a  pipe  and  let  his  beard 
grow,  yet  how  nevertheless  the  Bishop  hesi- 
tated to  interdict  him  because  he  would  have 
great  difficulty  in  finding  another  priest  willing 
to  bury  himself  in  that  remote  village.  More- 
over, the  easygoing  priest  in  possession  threat- 
ened to  tie  up  and  fling  into  the  river  anyone 
who  ventured  to  try  and  oust  him  from  his 
place. 

"The  worst  of  it  is  that  the  simpletons  of 
Aar  are  attached  to  the  man,  although  they 
are  frightened  of  him  and  his  sorceries.  Some 
of  them  actually  believe  he  is  the  Antichrist, 
and  the  women  all  declare  that  they  will  help 
him  to  truss  up  his  successor  and  throw  him 
into  the  river." 

"Do  you  hear  that,  Paul?  If  you  become  a 
priest  and  have  any  idea  of  going  back  to  your 
mother's  village,  you  must  look  out  for  a 
lively  time  I" 

It  was  a  woman  who  flung  this  joke  at  him, 


THE    MOTHER  65 

Marielena;  she  was  the  one  who  had  charge 
of  him,  and  when  she  drew  him  towards  her 
to  comb  his  hair  her  fat  stomach  and  her  soft 
breast  used  to  make  him  think  she  was  made 
of  cushions.  He  was  very  fond  of  Marielena; 
in  spite  of  her  corpulent  body  she  had  a  refined 
and  pretty  face,  with  cheeks  softly  tinted  with 
pink  and  gentle  brown  eyes.  He  used  to  look 
up  at  her  as  one  looks  at  the  ripe  fruit  hanging 
on  the  tree,  and  perhaps  she  had  been  his 
first  love. 

Then  came  his  life  at  the  Seminary.  His 
mother  had  taken  him  there  one  October 
morning,  when  the  sky  was  blue  and  every- 
thing smelt  of  new  wine.  The  road  mounted 
steeply  and  at  the  top  of  the  hill  was  the 
archway  which  connected  the  Seminary  with 
the  Bishop's  house,  curved  like  a  vast  frame 
over  the  sunny  landscape  of  cottages,  trees  and 
granite  steps,  with  the  cathedral  tower  at  the 
bottom  of  the  picture.  The  grass  was  spring- 
ing up  between  the  cobblestones  in  front  of  the 
Bishop's  house,  several  men  rode  past  on  horse- 
back and  the  horses  had  long  legs  with  hairy 
fetlocks  and  were  shod  with  gleaming  iron 


66  THE    MOTHER 

shoes.  He  noticed  all  these  things  because  he 
kept  his  eyes  shyly  on  the  ground,  a  little 
ashamed  of  himself,  a  little  ashamed  of  his 
mother.  Yes,  why  not  confess  it  once  for  all? 
He  had  always  been  more  or  less  ashamed  of 
his  mother,  because  she  was  a  servant  and  came 
from  that  village  of  poor  simpletons.  Only 
later,  very  much  later,  had  he  overcome  this 
ignoble  feeling  by  sheer  force  of  pride  and 
will,  and  the  more  he  had  been  unreasonably 
ashamed  of  his  origin,  all  the  more  did  he 
subsequently  glory  in  it  to  himself  and  before 
God  choosing  voluntarily  to  live  in  this 
miserable  hamlet,  subjecting  himself  to  his 
mother,  and  respecting  her  most  trifling  wishes 
and  conforming  to  her  humblest  ways. 

But  the  remembrance  of  his  mother  as  a 
servant,  aye,  even  less  than  a  servant,  a  mere 
drudge  in  the  Seminary  kitchen,  brought  back 
with  it  the  most  humiliating  memories  of  his 
youth.  And  yet  she  worked  as  a  servant  for 
his  sake.  On  the  days  when  he  went  to  con- 
fession and  communion  his  Superior  obliged 
him  to  go  and  kiss  his  mother's  hand  and  ask 
her  pardon  for  the  faults  he  had  committed. 


THE    MOTHER  67 

The  hand  which  she  dried  hurriedly  with  a 
dishcloth  smelt  of  soapsuds  and  was  chapped 
and  wrinkled  like  an  old  wall,  and  he  was  filled 
with  shame  and  rage  at  being  forced  to  kiss  it; 
but  he  asked  forgiveness  of  God  for  his  ina- 
bility  to  ask  forgiveness  of  her. 

Thus  God  had  revealed  Himself  to  Paul, 
as  hidden  behind  his  mother  in  the  damp  and 
smoky  kitchen  of  the  Seminary:  God  Who  is 
in  every  place,  in  heaven  and  on  earth  and  in 
all  things  created. 

And  in  his  hours  of  exaltation,  when  he  lay 
in  his  little  room  staring  with  wide-open  eyes 
into  the  darkness,  he  had  dwelt  with  wonder 
on  the  thought,  "I  shall  be  a  priest,  I  shall 
be  able  to  consecrate  the  host  and  change  it 
into  God."  And  at  those  times  he  thought 
also  of  his  mother,  and  when  he  was  away 
from  her  and  could  not  see  her,  he  loved  her 
and  realized  that  his  own  greatness  was  all 
due  to  her,  for  instead  of  sending  him  to  herd 
goats  or  carry  sacks  of  grain  to  the  mill,  as 
his  father  had  done,  she  was  making  him  into 
a  priest,  one  who  had  power  to  consecrate  the 
host  and  change  it  into  God. 


68  THE    MOTHER 

It  was  thus  he  conceived  his  mission  in  life. 
He  knew  nothing  of  the  world;  his  brightest 
and  most  emotional  memories  were  the  cere- 
monies of  the  great  religious  festivals,  and 
recalling  these  memories  now,  in  all  the  bitter- 
ness of  his  present  anguish,  they  awoke  in  him 
a  sense  of  light  and  joy  and  presented  them- 
selves to  his  mind's  eye  as  great  living  pictures. 
And  the  remembered  music  of  the  cathedral 
organ  and  the  sense  of  mystery  in  the  cere- 
monies of  Holy  Week  became  part  of  his  pres- 
ent sorrow,  of  that  anguish  of  life  and  death 
which  seemed  to  weigh  him  down  upon  his  bed 
as  the  burden  of  man's  sin  had  lain  upon  Christ 
in  the  sepulchre. 

It  was  during  one  of  these  periods  of  mysti- 
cal agitation  that  for  the  first  time  he  had 
come  into  intimate  relations  with  a  woman. 
When  he  thought  of  it  now  it  seemed  like  a 
dream,  neither  good  nor  evil,  but  only  strange. 

Every  holiday  he  went  to  visit  the  women 
with  whom  he  had  lived  during  his  boyhood, 
and  they  welcomed  him  as  though  he  were 
already  a  priest,  with  familiar  friendliness  and 
cheerfulness,  but  always  with  a  certain  dignity. 


THE    MOTHER  69 

When  he  looked  at  Marielena  he  used  to  blush, 
and  then  scorned  himself  for  blushing,  because 
though  he  still  liked  her,  he  now  saw  her  in 
all  her  crude  realism,  fat,  soft  and  shapeless; 
nevertheless  her  presence  and  her  gentle  eyes 
still  roused  little  tremors  in  him. 

Marielena  and  her  sisters  used  often  to  in- 
vite him  to  dinner  on  feast  days.  On  one  oc- 
casion, Palm  Sunday,  he  happened  to  arrive 
early,  and  whilst  his  hostesses  were  busy  laying 
the  table  and  awaiting  their  other  guests,  Paul 
went  out  into  their  little  garden  and  began  to 
walk  up  and  down  the  path  which  ran  be- 
side the  outer  wall,  beneath  the  aspens  covered 
with  little  golden  leaves.  The  sky  was  all  a 
milky  blue,  the  air  soft  and  warm  with  the 
light  wind  from  the  eastern  hills,  and  the 
cuckoo  could  already  be  heard  calling  in  the 
distance. 

Just  as  he  was  standing  on  tiptoe  childishly 
to  pick  a  drop  of  resin  off  an  almond  tree,  he 
suddenly  saw  a  pair  of  large  greenish  eyes  fixed 
upon  him  from  the  lane  on  the  other  side  of 
the  garden  wall.  They  looked  like  the  eyes  of 
a  cat,  and  the  whole  personality  of  the  woman, 


70  THE    MOTHER 

who  was  sitting  crouched  upon  the  steps  of  a 
dark  doorway  at  the  end  of  the  lane,  had 
something  feline  about  it.  He  could  conjure 
up  her  image  again  so  clearly  that  he  even 
felt  as  if  he  still  held  the  drop  of  soft  resin 
between  his  finger  and  thumb,  whilst  his  fasci- 
nated eyes  could  not  withdraw  themselves 
from  hers !  And  over  the  doorway  he  remem- 
bered a  little  window  surrounded  by  a  white 
line  with  a  small  cross  over  it.  He  had  known 
that  doorway  and  that  window  very  well  ever 
since  he  was  a  boy,  and  the  cross  placed  there 
as  a  charm  against  temptation  had  always 
amused  him,  because  the  woman  who  lived  in 
the  cottage,  Maria  Paska,  was  a  lost  woman. 
He  could  see  her  now  before  him,  with  her 
fringed  kerchief  showing  her  white  neck,  and 
her  long  coral  ear-rings,  like  two  long  drops 
of  blood.  With  her  elbows  resting  on  her 
knees  and  her  pale,  delicate  face  supported  be- 
tween her  hands,  Maria  Paska  looked  at  him 
steadily,  and  at  last  she  smiled  at  him,  but 
without  moving.  Her  white  even  teeth  and 
the  somewhat  cruel  expression  of  her  eyes  only 
served  to  accentuate  the  feline  look  about  her 


THE    MOTHER  71 

face.  Suddenly,  however,  she  dropped  her 
hands  into  her  lap,  raised  her  head  and  as- 
sumed a  grave  and  sad  expression.  A  big  man, 
with  his  cap  drawn  down  to  hide  his  face,  was 
coming  cautiously  down  the  lane  and  keeping 
close  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall. 

Then  Maria  Paska  got  up  quickly  and  went 
into  the  house,  and  the  big  man  followed  her 

and  shut  the  door. 

*  *  *  *  * 

Paul  never  forgot  his  terrible  agitation  as 
he  walked  about  in  the  little  garden  and 
thought  of  those  two  shut  up  in  that  squalid 
house  in  the  lane.  It  was  a  sort  of  uneasy 
sadness,  a  sense  of  discomfort  that  made  him 
want  to  be  alone  and  to  hide  himself  like  a 
sick  animal,  and  during  dinner  he  was  unusually 
silent  amidst  the  cheerful  talk  of  the  other 
guests.  Directly  dinner  was  over  he  returned 
to  the  garden:  the  woman  was  there,  on  the 
look-out  again  and  in  the  same  position  as 
before.  The  sun  never  reached  the  damp 
corner  where  her  door  was,  and  she  looked  as 
if  she  were  so  white  and  delicate  because  she 
always  lived  in  the  shade. 


72  THE    MOTHER 

When  she  saw  the  seminarist  she  did  not 
move,  but  she  smiled  at  him,  and  then  her  face 
became  grave  as  on  the  arrival  of  the  big  man. 
She  called  out  to  Paul,  speaking  as  one  would 
speak  to  a  young  boy : 

"I  say,  will  you  come  and  bless  my  house 
on  Saturday?  Last  year  the  priest  who  was 
going  round  blessing  the  houses  refused  to 
come  into  mine.  May  he  go  to  hell,  he  and 
all  his  bag  of  tricks!" 

Paul  made  no  answer,  he  felt  inclined  to 
throw  a  stone  at  the  woman,  in  fact  he  did 
pick  one  up  from  the  wall,  but  then  put  it  back 
and  wiped  his  hand  on  his  handkerchief.  But 
all  through  Holy  Week,  whilst  he  was  hearing 
Mass,  or  taking  part  in  the  sacred  function,  or, 
taper  in  hand,  escorting  the  Bishop  with  all 
the  other  seminarists,  he  always  seemed  to  see 
the  woman's  eyes  staring  at  him  till  it  became  a 
veritable  obsession.  He  had  wanted  to  exor- 
cize her,  as  one  possessed  of  the  Devil,  yet  at 
the  same  time  he  felt  somehow  that  the  spirit 
of  evil  was  within  himself.  During  the  cere- 
mony of  feet-washing,  when  the  Bishop  stooped 
before  the  twelve  beggars  (who  looked  as 


THE    MOTHER  73 

though  they  might  really  have  been  the  twelve 
apostles),  Paul's  heart  was  moved  by  the 
thought  that  on  the  Saturday  before  Easter  of 
the  previous  year  the  priest  had  refused  to 
bless  the  house  of  the  lost  woman.  And  yet 
Christ  had  pardoned  Mary  Magdalene.  Per- 
haps if  the  priest  had  blessed  the  lost  woman's 
house  she  might  have  amended  her  ways.  This 
last  reflection  presently  began  to  take  hold  of 
him  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other  thoughts,  but 
on  examining  it  now  at  this  distance  of  time  he 
perceived  that  here  his  instinct  had  played  him 
false,  for  at  that  period  he  had  not  yet  learnt 
to  know  himself.  And  yet  perhaps,  even  if  he 
had  known  himself,  he  would  still  have  gone 
back  on  the  Saturday  to  see  the  lost  woman  in 

the  lane. 

***** 

When  he  turned  the  corner  he  saw  that 
Maria  Paska  was  not  sitting  on  her  doorstep, 
but  the  door  was  open,  a  sign  that  she  had  no 
visitor.  Involuntarily  he  imitated  the  big  man 
and  went  down  the  lane  in  the  shadow  of  the 
wall,  but  he  wished  she  had  been  there  on  the 
look-out  and  that  she  had  risen  up  with  a 


74  THE    MOTHER 

grave,  sad  face  at  his  approach.  When  he 
reached  the  end  of  the  lane  he  saw  her  draw- 
ing water  from  a  well  at  the  side  of  the  house, 
and  his  heart  gave  a  jump,  for  she  looked  just 
like  the  pictures  of  Mary  Magdalene;  and  she 
turned  and  saw  him  as  she  was  drawing  up  the 
bucket,  and  blushed.  Never  in  his  life  had  he 
seen  a  more  beautiful  woman.  Then  he  was 
seized  with  a  desire  to  run  away,  but  he  was 
too  shy,  and  as  she  re-entered  the  house  carry- 
ing the  jug  of  water  in  her  hand  she  said  some- 
thing to  him  which  he  did  not  understand,  but 
he  followed  her  inside  and  she  shut  the  door. 
A  little  wooden  staircase  ending  in  a  trapdoor 
gave  access  to  the  upper  room,  the  one  with  the 
window  over  which  hung  a  cross  as  a  protection 
against  temptation,  and  she  led  him  up,  snatch- 
ing 4iis  cap  from  his  head  and  tossing  it  aside 
with  a  laugh. 

*  *  *  ^  * 

Paul  went  to  see  her  again  several  times, 
but  after  he  had  been  ordained  and  had  taken 
the  vow  of  chastity  he  had  kept  away  from  all 
women.  His  senses  seemed  to  have  grown 
petrified  within  the  frozen  armour  of  his  vow, 


THE    MOTHER  75 

and  when  he  heard  scandalous  tales  of  other 
priests  he  felt  a  pride  in  his  own  purity,  and 
only  thought  of  his  adventure  with  the  woman 
in  the  lane  as  an  illness  from  which  he  had 
completely  recovered. 

During  the  first  years  passed  in  the  little 
village  he  thought  of  himself  as  having  already 
lived  his  life,  as  having  known  all  it  could 
offer,  misery,  humiliation,  love,  pleasure,  sin 
and  expiation;  as  having  withdrawn  from  the 
world  like  some  old  hermit  and  waiting  only 
for  the  Kingdom  of  God.  And  now  suddenly 
he  beheld  the  earthly  life  again  in  a  woman's 
eyes,  and  at  first  he  had  been  so  deceived  as 
to  mistake  it  for  the  life  eternal. 

To  love  and  be  loved,  is  not  this  the  King- 
dom of  God  upon  earth?  And  his  heart 
swelled  within  him  at  the  remembrance.  O 
Lord,  are  we  so  blind?  Where  shall  we  find 
the  light?  Paul  knew  himself  to  be  ignorant: 
his  knowledge  was  made  up  of  fragments  of 
books  of  which  he  only  imperfectly  understood 
the  meaning,  but  above  all  the  Bible  had  im- 
pressed him  with  its  romanticism  and  its  realis- 
tic pictures  of  past  ages.  Wherefore  he  could 


76  THE    MOTHER 

place  no  reliance  even  on  himself  nor  on  his 
own  inward  searchings :  he  realized  that  he  had 
no  self-knowledge,  that  he  was  not  master  of 
himself  and  that  he  deceived  himself  ever  and 
always. 

His  feet  had  been  set  upon  the  wrong  road. 
He  was  a  man  of  strong  natural  instincts,  like 
his  forbears,  the  millers  and  shepherds,  and 
he  suffered  because  he  was  not  allowed  to  obey 
his  instincts.  Here  he  got  back  to  his  first 
simple  and  correct  diagnosis  of  what  ailed 
him:  he  was  unhappy  because  he  was  a  man 
and  was  forbidden  to  lead  man's  natural  life 
of  love  and  joy  and  the  fulfilment  of  life's 
natural  ends.  Then  he  reflected  that  pleasure 
enjoyed  leaves  only  horror  and  anguish  behind 
it;  therefore  it  could  not  be  the  flesh  that  cried 
out  for  its  chance  of  life,  but  rather  the  soul 
imprisoned  within  the  flesh  that  longed  to  es- 
cape from  its  prison.  In  those  supreme  mo- 
ments of  love  it  had  been  the  soul  which  had 
soared  upward  in  a  rapid  flight,  only  to  fall 
back  more  swiftly  into  its  cage;  but  that  in- 
stant of  freedom  had  sufficed  to  show  it  the 
place  to  which  it  would  take  its  flight  when  its 


THE    MOTHER  77 

prison  days  were  ended  and  the  wall  of  flesh 
for  ever  overthrown,  a  place  of  infinite  joy, 
the  Infinite  itself. 

He  smiled  at  last,  saddened  and  weary. 
Where  had  he  read  all  these  things?  Cer- 
tainly he  must  have  read  them  somewhere,  for 
he  had  no  pretensions  to  evolve  new  ideas  him- 
self. But  it  was  of  no  consequence,  the  truth 
is  always  the  same,  alike  for  all  men,  as  all 
men's  hearts  are  alike.  He  had  thought 
himself  different  from  other  men,  a  voluntary 
exile  and  worthy  of  being  near  to  God,  and 
perhaps  God  was  punishing  him  in  this  way, 
by  sending  him  back  among  men,  into  the  com- 
munity of  passion  and  of  pain. 

He  must  rise  up  and  pursue  his  appointed 
way. 


CHAPTER  V 

HE    became    aware    that    some    one    was 
knocking  at  the  door. 

Paul  started  as  though  suddenly  awakened 
from  sleep  and  sprang  up  from  his  bed  with 
the  confused  sensation  of  one  who  has  to  de- 
part on  a  journey  and  is  afraid  of  being  too 
late.  But  directly  he  tried  to  stand  up  he  was 
forced  to  sit  down  weakly  on  his  bed  again, 
for  his  limbs  gave  way  under  him  and  he  felt 
as  if  he  had  been  beaten  all  over  whilst  he  lay 
asleep.  Crouched  together  with  his  head  sunk 
on  his  breast,  he  could  only  nod  faintly  in  re- 
sponse to  the  knock.  His  mother  had  not  for- 
gotten to  call  him  early,  as  he  had  requested 
her  on  the  previous  day:  his  mother  was  fol- 
lowing her  own  straight  path,  she  remembered 
nothing  of  what  had  happened  during  the  night 
and  called  him  as  though  this  were  just  like 
any  other  morning. 

Yes,  it  was  like  any  other  morning.     Paul 
79 


8o  THE    MOTHER 

got  up  again  and  began  to  dress,  and  gradually 
he  pulled  himself  together  and  stood  stiff  and 
erect  in  the  garments  of  his  order.  He  flung 
open  the  window,  and  his  eyes  were  dazzled  by 
the  vivid  light  of  the  silvery  sky;  the  thickets 
on  the  hill-side,  alive  with  the  song  of  birds, 
quivered  and  sparkled  in  the  morning  sun,  the 
wind  had  dropped  and  the  sound  of  the  church 
bell  vibrated  through  the  pure  air. 

The  bell  called  him,  he  lost  sight  of  all  ex- 
ternal things,  although  he  sought  to  escape 
from  the  things  within  him:  the  scent  of  his 
room  caused  him  physical  distress  and  the 
memories  it  evoked  stung  him  to  the  quick. 
The  bell  went  on  calling  him,  but  he  could 
not  make  up  his  mind  to  leave  his  room  and 
he  wandered  round  it  almost  in  a  fury.  He 
looked  in  the  mirror  and  then  turned  away, 
but  it  was  useless  for  him  to  avoid  it;  the 
image  of  the  woman  was  reflected  in  his  mind 
as  in  a  mirror,  he  might  break  it  in  a  thousand 
fragments,  but  each  fragment  would  still  retain 
that  image  entire  and  complete. 

The  second  bell  for  Mass  was  ringing  insist- 
ently, inviting  him  to  come:  he  moved  about 


THE    MOTHER  81 

here  and  there,  searching  for  something  he 
could  not  find,  and  finally  sat  down  at  his 
table  and  began  to  write.  He  began  by  copy- 
ing out  the  verses  which  said,  "Enter  ye  in  by 
the  narrow  gate,"  etc.;  then  he  crossed  them 
out  and  on  the  other  side  of  the  paper  he 
wrote : 

"Please  do  not  expect  me  again.  We  have 
mutually  entangled  each  other  in  a  net  of  de- 
ception and  we  must  cut  ourselves  loose  with- 
out delay,  if  we  want  to  free  ourselves  and  not 
sink  to  the  bottom.  I  am  coming  to  you  no 
more;  forget  me,  do  not  write  to  me,  and  do 
not  try  to  see  me  again." 

Then  he  went  downstairs  and  called  his 
mother,  and  held  out  the  letter  towards  her 
without  looking  at  her. 

"Take  this  to  her  at  once,"  he  said  hoarsely, 
"try  and  give  it  into  her  own  hands  and  then 
come  away  immediately." 

He  felt  the  letter  taken  out  of  his  hand  and 
hurried  outside,  for  the  moment  uplifted  and 
relieved. 

Now  the  bell  was  ringing  the  third  time, 
pealing  out  over  the  quiet  village  and  the  val- 


82  THE    MOTHER 

leys  grey  in  the  silvery  light  of  the  dawn.  Up 
the  hilly  road,  as  though  ascending  from  the 
depths  of  the  valley,  came  figures  of  old  men 
with  gnarled  sticks  hanging  from  their  wrists 
by  leather  straps,  and  women  whose  heads 
wrapped  in  voluminous  kerchiefs  looked  too 
large  for  their  small  bodies.  When  they  had 
all  entered  the  church  and  the  old  men  had 
taken  their  places  in  front  close  by  the  altar 
rails,  the  place  was  filled  with  the  odour  of 
earth  and  field,  and  Antiochus,  the  youthful 
sacristan,  swung  his  censer  energetically,  send- 
ing out  the  smoke  in  the  direction  of  the  old 
men  to  drive  away  the  smell.  Gradually  a 
dense  cloud  of  incense  screened  the  altar  from 
the  rest  of  the  little  church,  and  the  brown- 
faced  sacristan  in  his  white  surplice  and  the 
pale-faced  priest  in  his  vestments  of  red  brocade 
moved  about  as  in  a  pearly  mist.  Both  Paul 
and  the  boy  loved  the  smoke  and  the  scent  of 
the  incense  and  used  it  lavishly.  Turning 
towards  the  nave,  the  priest  half  closed  his 
eyes  and  frowned  as  though  the  mist  impeded 
his  sight;  apparently  he  was  displeased  at  the 
small  number  of  worshippers  and  was  waiting 


THE    MOTHER  83 

for  others  to  arrive.  And  in  fact  a  few 
late  comers  did  enter  then,  and  last  of  all 
his  mother,  and  Paul  turned  white  to  the 
lips. 

So  the  letter  had  been  delivered  and  the 
sacrifice  was  accomplished:  a  deathlike  sweat 
broke  out  upon  his  forehead,  and  as  he  raised 
his  hands  in  consecration  his  secret  prayer  was 
that  the  offering  of  his  own  flesh  and  blood 
might  be  accepted.  And  he  seemed  to  see  the 
woman  reading  his  letter  and  falling  to  the 
ground  in  a  swoon. 

When  the  Mass  was  ended  he  knelt  down 
wearily  and  recited  a  Latin  prayer  in  a  monot- 
onous voice.  The  congregation  responded, 
and  he  felt  as  though  he  were  dreaming  and 
longed  to  throw  himself  down  at  the  foot  of 
the  altar  and  fall  asleep  like  a  shepherd  on  the 
bare  rocks.  Dimly  through  the  clouds  of  in- 
cense he  saw  in  her  glass-fronted  niche  the  little 
Madonna  which  the  people  believed  to  be 
miraculous,  a  figure  as  dark  and  delicate  as  a 
cameo  in  a  medallion,  and  he  gazed  at  it  as 
though  he  were  seeing  it  again  for  the  first 
time  after  a  long  absence.  Where  had  he  been 


84  THE    MOTHER 

all  that  time?  His  thoughts  were  confused 
and  he  could  not  recollect. 

Then  suddenly  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  turned 
round  and  began  to  address  the  congregation, 
a  thing  he  only  did  very  occasionally.  He 
spoke  in  dialect  and  in  a  harsh  voice,  as  though 
he  were  scolding  the  old  men,  now  thrusting 
their  bearded  faces  between  the  pillars  of  the 
altar  rails  in  order  to  hear  better,  and  the 
women  crouching  on  the  ground,  divided  be- 
tween curiosity  and  fear.  The  sacristan,  hold- 
ing the  Mass-book  in  his  arms,  glanced  at  Paul 
out  of  his  long  dark  eyes,  then  turned  them  on 
the  people  and  shook  his  head,  threatening 
them  in  jest  if  they  did  not  attend. 

"Yes,"  said  the  priest,  "the  number  of  you 
who  come  here  grows  ever  less;  when  I  have 
to  face  you  I  am  almost  ashamed,  for  I  feel 
like  a  shepherd  who  has  lost  his  sheep.  Only 
on  Sunday  is  the  church  a  little  fuller,  but  I 
fear  you  come  because  of  your  scruples  and 
not  because  of  your  belief,  from  habit  rather 
than  from  need,  as  you  change  your  clothes 
or  take  your  rest.  Up  now,  it  is  time  to 
awake !  I  do  not  expect  mothers  of  families, 


THE    MOTHER  85 

or  men  who  have  to  be  at  work  before  the 
dawn,  to  come  here  every  morning,  but  young 
women  and  old  men  and  children,  such  as  I 
shall  see  now  when  I  leave  the  church,  standing 
at  their  own  doors  to  greet  the  rising  sun,  all 
those  should  come  here  to  begin  the  day  with 
God,  to  praise  Him  in  His  own  house  and  to 
gain  strength  for  the  path  they  have  to  tread. 
If  you  did  this  the  poverty  that  afflicts  you 
would  disappear,  and  evil  habits  and  tempta- 
tion would  no  longer  assail  you.  It  is  time  to 
awake  early  in  the  morning,  to  wash  your- 
selves and  to  change  your  clothing  every  day 
and  not  only  on  Sundays!  So  I  shall  expect 
you  all,  beginning  from  to-morrow,  and  we 
will  pray  together  that  God  will  not  forsake 
us  and  our  little  village,  as  He  will  not  forsake 
the  smallest  nest,  and  for  those  who  are  sick 
and  cannot  come  here  we  will  pray  that  they 
may  recover  and  be  able  to  march  forward 
too." 

He  turned  round  swiftly  and  the  sacristan 
did  the  same,  and  for  a  few  minutes  there 
reigned  in  the  little  church  a  silence  so  intense 
that  the  stone-breaker  could  be  heard  at  his 


86  THE    MOTHER 

work  behind  the  ridge.  Then  a  woman  got  up 
and  approached  the  priest's  mother,  placing 
a  hand  on  her  shoulder  as  she  bent  down  and 
whispered : 

"Your  son  must  come  at  once  to  hear  the 
confession  of  King  Nicodemus,  who  is  seriously 
ill." 

Roused  from  her  own  sad  thoughts,  the 
mother  raised  her  eyes  to  the  speaker.  She 
remembered  that  King  Nicodemus  was  a  fan- 
tastic old  hunter  who  lived  in  a  hut  high  up  in 
the  mountains,  and  she  asked  if  Paul  would 
have  to  climb  up  there  to  hear  the  con- 
fession. 

"No,"  whispered  the  woman,  "his  relations 
have  brought  him  down  to  the  village." 

So  the  mother  went  to  tell  Paul,  who  was  in 
the  little  sacristy,  disrobing  with  the  help  of 
Antiochus. 

"You  will  come  home  first  and  drink  your 
coffee,  won't  you?"  she  asked. 

He  avoided  looking  at  her  and  did  not  even 
answer,  but  pretended  to  be  in  a  great  hurry 
to  go  to  the  old  man  who  was  ill.  The 
thoughts  of  both  mother  and  son  dwelt  upon 


THE    MOTHER  87 

the  same  thing,  the  letter  which  had  been  de- 
livered to  Agnes,  but  neither  spoke  of  it.  Then 
he  hastened  away,  and  she  stood  there  like  a 
block  of  wood  whilst  the  sacristan  busied  him- 
self in  replacing  the  vestments  in  the  black 
cupboard. 

"It  would  have  been  better  if  I  had  not  told 
him  about  Nicodemus  until  he  had  been  home 
and  had  his  coffee,"  she  said. 

"A  priest  must  get  accustomed  to  every- 
thing," replied  Antiochus  gravely,  poking  his 
head  round  the  cupboard  door,  and  then  he 
added  as  though  to  himself  as  he  turned  back 
to  his  work  inside: 

"Perhaps  he  is  angry  with  me,  because  he 
says  I  am  inattentive:  but  it's  not  true,  I 
assure  you  it's  not  true  I  Only  when  I  looked 
at  those  old  men  I  felt  inclined  to  laugh,  for 
they  did  not  understand  a  word  of  the  sermon. 
They  sat  there  with  their  mouths  open,  but 
they  understood  nothing.  I  bet  you  that  old 
Marco  Panizza  really  thinks  he  ought  to  wash 
his  face  every  day,  he  who  never  washes  at  all 
except  at  Easter  and  Christmas !  And  you'll 
see  that  from  now  on  they  will  all  come  to 


88  THE    MOTHER 

church  every  day,  because  he  told  them  that 
poverty  would  disappear  if  they  did  that." 

The  mother  still  stood  there,  her  hands 
clasped  beneath  her  apron. 

"The  poverty  of  the  soul,"  she  said,  to  show 
that  she  at  least  had  understood.  But  Anti- 
ochus  only  looked  at  her  as  he  had  looked  at 
the  old  men,  with  a  strong  desire  to  laugh. 
Because  he  was  quite  sure  that  nobody  could 
understand  these  matters  as  he  understood 
them,  he  who  already  knew  the  four  gospels 
by  heart  and  intended  to  be  a  priest  himself, 
which  fact  did  not  prevent  him  from  being  as 
mischievous  and  inquisitive  as  other  boys. 

As  soon  as  he  had  finished  putting  everything 
in  order  and  the  priest's  mother  had  gone 
away,  Antiochus  locked  the  sacristy  and  walked 
across  the  little  garden  attached  to  the  church, 
all  overgrown  with  rosemary  and  as  deserted 
as  a  cemetery.  But  instead  of  going  home  to 
where  his  mother  kept  a  tavern  in  one  corner 
of  the  village  square,  he  ran  off  to  the  presby- 
tery to  hear  the  latest  news  of  King  Nicode- 
mus,  and  also  for  another  reason. 

"Your  son  scolded  me  for  not  paying  atten- 


THE    MOTHER  89 

tion,"  he  repeated  uneasily,  whilst  the  priest's 
mother  was  busy  preparing  her  Paul's  break- 
fast. "Perhaps  he  won't  have  me  as  sacristan 
any  longer,  perhaps  he  will  take  Ilario  Panizza. 
But  Ilario  cannot  read,  whereas  I  have  even 
learnt  to  read  Latin.  Besides,  Ilario  is  so 
dirty.  What  do  you  think?  Will  he  send 
me  away?" 

"He  wants  you  to  pay  attention,  that  is  all: 
it  is  not  right  to  laugh  in  church,"  she  an- 
swered sternly  and  gravely. 

"He  is  very  angry.  Perhaps  he  did  not 
sleep  last  night,  on  account  of  the  wind.  Did 
you  hear  what  an  awful  wind?" 

The  woman  made  no  reply;  she  went  into 
the  dining-room  and  placed  on  the  table 
enough  bread  and  biscuits  to  satisfy  the  twelve 
apostles.  Probably  Paul  would  not  touch  a 
thing,  but  the  mere  act  of  moving  about  and 
making  preparations  for  him,  as  though  he 
were  sure  to  come  in  as  merry  and  hungry  as 
a  mountain  shepherd,  did  something  to  assuage 
her  trouble  and  perhaps  quiet  her  conscience, 
which  every  moment  stung  her  more  and  more 
sharply,  and  the  boy's  very  remark,  that  "per- 


90  THE    MOTHER 

haps  he  was  angry  because  he  did  not  sleep 
last  night,"  only  increased  her  uneasiness. 
Her  heavy  footsteps  echoed  through  the  silent 
rooms  as  she  went  to  and  fro :  she  felt  instinc- 
tively that  although  apparently  all  was  over, 
in  reality  it  was  all  only  just  beginning.  She 
had  well  understood  the  words  he  spoke  from 
the  altar,  that  one  must  awake  early  and  wash 
oneself  and  march  forward,  and  she  went  to 
and  fro,  up  and  down,  trying  to  imagine  that 
she  was  marching  forward  in  very  truth.  She 
went  upstairs  to  put  his  room  in  order;  but 
the  mirror  and  the  perfumes  still  vexed  and 
alarmed  her,  in  spite  of  the  assurance  that 
everything  was  now  at  an  end,  while  a  vision 
of  Paul,  pale  and  rigid  as  a  corpse,  seemed  to 
meet  her  eyes  from  the  depths  of  that  cursed 
mirror,  to  hang  with  his  cassock  on  the  wall 
and  lie  stretched  lifeless  upon  the  bed.  And 
her  heart  was  heavy  within  her,  as  though 
some  inward  paralysis  prevented  her  breath- 
ing. 

The  pillow-slip  was  still  damp  with  Paul's 
tears  and  his  fevered  anguish  of  the  night,  and 
as  she  drew  it  off  to  replace  it  with  a  fresh  one 


THE    MOTHER  91 

the  thought  came  to  her,  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life: 

"But  why  are  priests  forbidden  to 
marry?" 

And  she  thought  of  Agnes's  wealth,  and  how 
she  owned  a  large  house  with  gardens  and 
orchards  and  fields. 

Then  suddenly  she  felt  horribly  guilty  in 
even  entertaining  such  thoughts,  and  quickly 
drawing  on  the  fresh  pillow-slip  she  went  away 
into  her  own  room. 

Marching  forward?  Yes,  she  had  been 
marching  since  dawn  and  was  yet  only  at  the 
beginning  of  the  way.  And  however  far  one 
went,  one  always  came  back  to  the  same  place. 
She  went  downstairs  and  sat  by  the  fire  beside 
Antiochus,  who  had  not  moved  and  was  deter- 
mined to  wait  there  all  day,  if  needs  be,  for 
the  sake  of  seeing  his  superior  and  making  his 
peace  with  him.  He  sat  very  still,  one  leg 
crossed  over  the  other  and  his  hands  clasped 
round  his  knee,  and  presently  he  remarked,  not 
without  a  slight  accent  of  reproach : 

uYou  ought  to  have  taken  him  his  coffee 
into  the  church,  as  you  do  when  he  is  delayed 


92  THE    MOTHER 

there  hearing  the  women's  confessions.  As  it 
is,  he  will  be  famished  I" 

"And  how  was  I  to  know  he  would  be  sent 
for  in  such  a  hurry?  The  old  man  is  dying, 
it  seems,"  retorted  the  mother. 

"I  don't  think  that  can  be  true.  His  grand- 
children want  him  to  die  because  he  has  some 
money  to  leave.  I  know  the  old  chap !  I  saw 
him  once  when  I  went  up  into  the  mountains 
with  my  father:  he  was  sitting  amongst  the 
rocks  in  the  sun,  with  a  dog  and  a  tame  eagle 
beside  him  and  all  sorts  of  dead  animals  all 
round.  That  is  not  how  God  orders  us  to 
live!" 

"What  does  He  order,  then?" 

"He  orders  us  to  live  amongst  men,  to  cul- 
tivate the  ground,  and  not  to  hide  our  money, 
but  to  give  it  to  the  poor." 

The  little  sacristan  spoke  with  a  man's  con- 
fidence, and  the  priest's  mother  was  touched 
and  smiled.  After  all,  if  Antiochus  could  say 
such  sensible  things  it  was  because  he  had  been 
taught  by  her  Paul.  It  was  her  Paul  who 
taught  them  all  to  be  good,  wise  and  prudent; 
and  when  he  really  wished  to  he  succeeded  in 


THE    MOTHER  93 

convincing  even  old  men  whose  opinions  were 
already  fixed,  and  even  thoughtless  children. 
She  sighed,  and  bending  down  to  draw  the 
coffee-pot  nearer  the  glowing  embers,  she 
said: 

"You  talk  like  a  little  saint,  Antiochus;  but 
it  remains  to  be  seen  if  you  will  do  as  you  say 
when  you're  a  man,  whether  you  really  will 
give  your  money  to  the  poor." 

"Yes,  I  shall  give  everything  to  the  poor. 
I  shall  have  a  great  deal  of  money,  because 
my  mother  makes  a  lot  with  her  tavern,  and 
my  father  is  a  forest  keeper  and  earns  pretty 
well,  too.  I  shall  give  all  I  get  to  the  poor: 
God  tells  us  to  do  that,  and  He  Himself  will 
provide  for  us.  And  the  Bible  says,  the  ravens 
do  not  sow,  neither  do  they  reap,  yet  they 
have  their  food  from  God,  and  the  lily  of  the 
valley  is  clothed  more  splendidly  than  the 
king." 

"Yes,  Antiochus,  when  a  man  is  alone  he  can 
do  that,  but  what  if  he  has  children?" 

"That  makes  no  difference.  Besides,  I  shall 
never  have  children;  priests  are  not  allowed  to 
have  any." 


94  THE    MOTHER 

She  turned  to  look  at  him;  his  profile  was 
towards  her,  against  the  bright  background  of 
the  open  doorway  and  the  courtyard  outside; 
it  was  a  profile  of  pure,  firm  outline  and  dark 
skin,  almost  like  a  head  of  bronze,  with  long 
lashes  shading  the  eyes  with  their  large  dark 
pupils.  And  as  she  gazed  at  the  boy  she  could 
have  wept,  but  she  knew  not  why. 

"Are  you  quite  sure  you  want  to  be  a  priest?" 
she  asked. 

"Yes,  if  that  is  God's  will." 

"Priests  are  not  allowed  to  marry,  and  sup- 
*  pose  that  some  day  you  wanted  to  take  a 
wife?" 

"I  shall  not  want  a  wife,  since  God  has  for- 
bidden it." 

"God?  But  it  is  the  Pope  who  has  for- 
bidden it,"  said  the  mother,  somewhat  taken 
aback  at  the  boy's  answer. 

"The  Pope  is  God's  representative  on 
earth." 

"But  in  olden  times  priests  had  wives  and 
families,  just  as  the  Protestant  clergy  have 
now,"  she  urged. 

"That  is  a  different  thing,"  said  the  boy, 


THE    MOTHER  95 

growing  warm  over  the  argument;  "we  ought 
not  to  have  them!" 

"The  priests  in  olden  times  «  „  »"  she  per- 
sisted. 

But  the  sacristan  was  well-informed.  "Yes, 
the  priests  in  olden  times,"  he  said,  "but  then 
they  themselves  held  a  meeting  and  decided 
against  it;  and  those  who  had  no  wives  or 
families,  the  younger  ones,  were  the  very  ones 
who  opposed  marriage  the  most  strongly.  That 
is  as  it  should  be." 

"The  younger  ones!"  repeated  the  mother 
as  if  to  herself.  "  But  they  know  nothing  about 
it!  And  then  they  may  repent,  they  may  even 
go  astray,"  she  added  in  a  low  voice,  "  they 
may  come  to  reason  and  argue  like  the  old 
priest." 

A  tremor  seized  her  and  she  looked  swiftly 
round  to  assure  herself  that  the  ghost  was  not 
there,  instantly  repenting  for  having  thus 
evoked  it.  She  did  not  wish  even  to  think 
about  it,  and  least  of  all  in  connexion  with 
that  matter.  Was  it  not  all  ended?  More- 
over, Antiochus's  face  wore  an  expression  of 
the  deepest  scorn. 


96  THE    MOTHER 

"  That  man  was  not  a  priest,  he  was  the 
devil's  brother  come  to  earth !  God  save  us 
from  him !  We  had  best  not  even  think  about 
him!"  and  he  made  the  sign  of  the  cross. 
Then  he  continued,  with  recovered  seren- 
ity: 

"As  for  repenting!  Do  you  suppose  that 
he,  your  son,  ever  dreams  of  repenting?  " 

It  hurt  her  to  hear  the  boy  talk  like  that. 
She  longed  to  be  able  to  tell  him  something  of 
her  trouble,  to  warn  him  for  the  future,  yet  at 
the  same  time  she  rejoiced  at  his  words,  as 
though  the  conscience  of  the  innocent  lad  were 
speaking  to  her  conscience  to  commend  and 
encourage  it. 

"  Does  he,  does  my  Paul  say  it  is  right  for 
priests  not  to  marry?"  she  asked  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  If  he  does  not  say  it  is  right,  who  should 
say  so?  Of  course  he  says  it  is  right;  hasn't 
he  said  so  to  you?  A  fine  thing  it  would  be 
to  see  a  priest  with  his  wife  beside  him  and  a 
child  in  his  arms !  And  when  he  ought  to  go 
and  say  Mass  he  has  to  nurse  the  baby  because 
it's  howling!  What  a  joke!  Imagine  your 


THE    MOTHER  97 

son  with  one  child  in  his  arms  and  another 
hanging  on  to  his  cassock!  " 

The  mother  smiled  wanly;  but  there  passed 
before  her  eyes  a  fleeting  vision  of  lovely  chil- 
dren running  about  the  house,  and  there  was 
a  pang  at  her  heart.  Antiochus  laughed  aloud, 
his  dark  eyes  and  white  teeth  flashing  in  his 
brown  face,  but  there  was  something  cruel 
in  his  laughter. 

"A  priest's  wife  would  be  a  funny  thing! 
When  they  went  out  for  a  walk  together  they 
would  look  from  behind  like  two  women !  And 
would  she  go  and  confess  to  him,  if  they  lived 
in  a  place  where  there  was  no  other  priest?  " 

"What  does  a  mother  do?  Who  do  I  con- 
fess to?" 

"  A  mother  is  different.  And  who  is  there 
that  your  son  could  marry?  The  grand- 
daughter of  King  Nicodemus,  perhaps?" 

He  began  to  laugh  merrily  again,  for  the 
granddaughter  of  King  Nicodemus  was  the 
most  unfortunate  girl  in  the  village,  a  cripple 
and  an  idiot.  But  he  instantly  grew  serious 
again  when  the  mother,  forced  to  speak  by  a 
will  other  than  her  own,  said  softly: 


98  THE    MOTHER 

"  For  that  matter,  there  is  some  one, 
Agnes." 

But  Antiochus  objected  jealously:  "She  is 
ugly,  I  don't  like  her,  and  he  does  not  like  her 
either." 

Then  the  mother  began  to  praise  Agnes,  but 
she  spoke  almost  in  a  whisper  as  though  afraid 
of  being  overheard  by  anyone  except  the  boy, 
while  Antiochus,  his  hands  still  clasped  round 
his  knee,  shook  his  head  energetically,  his  lower 
lip  stuck  out  in  disgust  like  a  ripe  cherry. 

"  No,  no,  I  don't  like  her — can't  you  hear 
what  I  say!  She  is  ugly  and  proud  and  old. 
And  besides  .  .  ." 

A  step  sounded  in  the  little  hall  and  instantly 
they  both  were  silent  and  stood  waiting. 
*  *  *  *  * 


CHAPTER  VI 

PAUL  sat  down  at  the  table,  which  was 
laid  ready  for  breakfast,  and  put  his  hat 
on  the  chair  beside  him,  and  while  his  mother 
was  pouring  out  his  coffee  he  asked  in  a  calm 
voice : 

"  Did  you  take  that  letter?  " 

She  nodded,  pointing  towards  the  kitchen 
for  fear  the  boy  should  hear. 

"Who  is  there?"  asked  Paul. 

"  Antiochus." 

"  Antiochus !  "  he  called,  and  with  one  spring 
the  boy  was  before  him,  cap  in  hand,  standing 
to  attention  like  a  little  soldier. 

'*'  Listen,  Antiochus,  you  must  go  back  to 
the  church  and  get  everything  ready  for  taking 
extreme  unction  to  the  old  man  later  on." 

The  boy  was  speechless  with  joy:  so  he  was 
no  longer  angry  and  was  not  going  to  dismiss 
him  and  take  another  boy  in  his  place ! 

"  Wait  a  moment,  have  you  had  anything 

to  eat?" 

99 


ioo  THE    MOTHER 

"He  would  not  have  anything  to  eat;  he 
never  will,"  said  the  mother. 

"  Sit  down  there,"  ordered  Paul,  "  you  must 
eat.  Mother,  give  him  something." 

It  was  not  the  first  time  that  Antiochus  had 
sat  at  the  priest's  table,  so  he  obeyed  without 
shyness,  though  his  heart  beat  fast.  He  was 
aware  somehow  that  his  position  had  changed, 
that  the  priest  was  speaking  to  him  in  a  way 
different  from  usual;  he  could  not  explain  how 
or  why,  he  only  felt  there  was  a  difference.  He 
looked  up  in  Paul's  face  as  though  he  saw  him 
for  the  first  time,  with  mingled  fear  and  joy. 
Fear  and  joy  and  a  whole  throng  of  new  emo- 
tions, gratitude,  hope  and  pride,  filled  his  heart 
as  a  nest  full  of  warm  fledglings  ready  to 
spread  their  wings  and  fly  away. 

"  Then  at  two  o'clock  you  must  come  for 
your  lesson.  It  is  time  to  set  to  work  seriously 
with  Latin;  and  I  must  write  for  a  new  gram- 
mar, mine  is  centuries  old." 

Antiochus  had  stopped  eating:  now  he  went 
very  red  and  offered  his  services  enthusiastically 
without  inquiring  the  why  or  the  wherefore. 
The  priest  looked  at  him  with  a  smile,  then 


THE    MOTHER  101 

turned  his  face  to  the  window,  through  which 
the  trees  could  be  seen  waving  against  the  clear 
sky,  and  his  thoughts  were  evidently  far  away. 
Antiochus  felt  again  as  if  he  had  been  dis- 
missed and  his  spirits  fell;  he  brushed  the 
crumbs  from  the  tablecloth,  folded  his  napkin 
carefully  and  carried  the  cups  into  the  kitchen. 
He  prepared  to  wash  up,  too,  and  would  have 
done  it  very  well,  for  he  was  accustomed  to 
washing  glasses  in  his  mother's  wineshop;  but 
the  priest's  mother  would  not  allow  it. 

"  Go  to  the  church  and  get  ready,"  she  whis- 
pered, pushing  him  away.  He  went  out  im- 
mediately, but  before  going  to  the  church  he 
ran  round  to  his  mother  to  warn  her  to  have 
the  house  clean  and  tidy  as  the  priest  was 
coming  to  see  her. 

Meanwhile  the  priest's  mother  had  gone  back 
into  the  dining-room,  where  Paul  was  still 
idling  at  the  table  with  a  newspaper  in  front 
of  him.  Usually,  when  he  was  at  home,  he  sat 
in  his  own  room,  but  this  morning  he  was 
afraid  of  going  up  there  again.  He  sat  reading 
the  newspaper,  but  his  thoughts  were  else- 
where. He  was  thinking  of  the  old  dying 


102  THE    MOTHER 

hunter,  who  had  once  confessed  to  him  that 
he  shunned  the  company  of  men  because  "  they 
are  evil  itself,"  and  men  in  mockery  had  called 
him  King,  as  they  had  called  Christ  King  of  the 
Jews.  But  Paul  was  not  interested  in  the  old 
man's  confession;  his  thoughts  turned  rather 
to  Antiochus  and  his  father  and  mother,  for  he 
meant  to  ask  the  latter  whether  they  consci- 
entiously realized  what  they  were  doing  in  al- 
lowing the  boy  to  have  his  own  way  and  carry 
out  his  unreasoning  fancy  for  becoming  a  priest. 
But  even  this  was  really  of  little  importance : 
what  Paul  actually  wanted  was  to  get  away 
from  his  own  thoughts,  and  when  his  mother 
came  into  the  room  he  bowed  his  head  over 
his  paper,  for  he  knew  that  she  alone  could 
divine  what  those  thoughts  were. 

He  sat  there  with  bowed  head,  but  he  for- 
bade his  lips  to  frame  the  question  he  longed  to 
ask.  The  letter  had  been  delivered;  what  more 
was  there  for  him  to  know?  The  stone  of  the 
sepulchre  had  been  rolled  into  its  place:  but 
ah  I  how  it  weighed  upon  him,  how  alive  he  felt, 
buried  alive  beneath  that  great  stone! 

His  mother  began  to  clear  the  table,  putting 


THE    MOTHER  103 

each  object  back  in  the  cupboard  that  served  as 
a  sideboard.  It  was  so  quiet  that  the  birds 
could  be  heard  chirping  in  the  bushes  and  the 
regular  tap-tap  of  the  stone-breaker  by  the 
roadside.  It  seemed  like  the  end  of  the  world, 
as  though  the  last  habitation  of  living  men  was 
this  little  white  room,  with  its  time-blackened 
furniture  and  its  tiled  flooring,  upon  which  the 
green  and  gold  light  from  the  high  window  cast 
a  tremulous  reflection  as  of  water  and  made  the 
small  place  seem  like  some  prison  chamber  in 
the  dungeon  of  a  castle. 

Paul  had  drunk  his  coffee  and  eaten  his  bis- 
cuits as  usual,  and  now  he  was  reading  the 
news  of  the  great  world  far  away.  Out- 
wardly there  was  nothing  to  show  that  this  day 
was  in  any  way  different  from  other  days,  but 
his  mother  would  rather  he  had  gone  up  to  his 
room  as  was  his  custom  and  shut  the  door. 
And  why,  since  he  was  sitting  there,  did  he  not 
ask  her  more  about  her  errand,  and  to  whom 
she  had  given  the  letter?  She  went  to  the 
kitchen  door  with  a  cup  in  her  hand,  then 
carried  it  back  to  the  table  and  stood  there. 

"  Paul,"  she  said,   "  I  gave  the  letter  into 


io4  THE    MOTHER 

her  own  hand.  She  was  already  up  and  dressed, 
and  in  the  garden." 

"  Very  well,"  he  answered,  without  raising 
his  eyes  from  the  newspaper. 

But  she  could  not  leave  him,  she  felt  she 
must  speak;  something  stronger  than  her  will 
impelled  her,  something  stronger  even  than 
the  will  of  her  son.  She  cleared  her  throat 
and  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  little  Japanese  land- 
scape painted  at  the  bottom  of  the  cup  she  was 
holding,  its  colours  stained  and  darkened  with 
coffee.  Then  she  went  on  with  her  tale : 

"  She  was  in  the  garden,  for  she  gets  up 
early.  I  went  straight  to  her  and  gave  her  the 
letter:  nobody  saw.  She  took  it  and  looked 
at  it;  then  she  looked  at  me,  but  still  she  did 
not  open  it.  I  said  '  There  is  no  answer,'  and 
turned  to  go  away,  but  she  said,  '  Wait.'  Then 
she  opened  the  letter  as  if  to  show  me  there 
was  no  secret  in  it,  and  she  turned  as  white 
as  the  paper  itself.  Then  she  said  to  me,  '  Go, 
and  God  be  with  you  !'  ' 

"That's  enough!"  he  cried  sharply,  still 
without  looking  up,  but  his  mother  saw  the 
lashes  quiver  over  his  downcast  eyes  and  his 


THE    MOTHER  105 

face  turn  as  white  as  that  of  Agnes.  For  a 
moment  she  thought  he  was  about  to  faint,  then 
the  blood  slowly  came  back  into  his  face  and 
she  breathed  again  with  relief.  Such  moments 
as  these  were  terrible,  but  they  must  be  met 
bravely  and  overcome.  She  opened  her  lips  to 
say  something  else,  to  murmur  at  least,  "  See 
what  you  have  done,  how  you  have  hurt  both 
yourself  and  her !  "  but  at  that  instant  he 
looked  up,  jerking  his  head  back  as  though  to 
drive  the  blood  of  evil  passion  from  his  face, 
and  glaring  angrily  at  his  mother,  he  said 
roughly : 

"  Now  that  is  enough!  Do  you  hear?  It's 
enough !  I  absolutely  refuse  to  hear  another 
word  on  this  matter,  otherwise  I  shall  do  what 
you  threatened  to  do  last  night:  I  shall  go 
away." 

Then  he  got  up  quickly,  but  instead  of  going 
to  his  room  he  left  the  house  again.  His 
mother  went  into  the  kitchen,  the  cup  still  in 
her  trembling  hands;  she  put  it  down  on  the 
table  and  leaned  against  the  corner  of  the 
fireplace,  utterly  broken  down.  She  knew  now 
he  had  gone  away  for  ever;  even  if  he  came 


io6  THE    MOTHER 

back  he  would  no  longer  be  her  Paul,  but  a  poor 
wretch  possessed  by  his  evil  passion,  one  who 
looked  with  threatening  eyes  at  whoever 
crossed  his  path,  like  some  thief  lying  in  wait 
to  commit  a  crime. 

And  Paul,  indeed,  was  like  one  who  has  fled 
from  home  in  fear.  He  had  rushed  out  to 
avoid  going  up  to  his  room,  for  he  had  an  idea 
that  Agnes  might  have  got  in  secretly  and  be 
waiting  for  him  there,  with  her  white  face  and 
the  letter  in  her  hand.  He  had  escaped  from 
the  house  in  order  to  escape  from  himself,  but 
he  was  carried  away  by  his  passion  more 
violently  than  by  the  wind  on  the  night  before. 
He  crossed  the  meadow  without  any  definite 
aim,  feeling  as  though  he  were  some  inanimate 
thing  flung  bodily  against  the  wall  of  Agnes's 
house  and  thrown  back  by  the  rebound  as  far  as 
the  square  before  the  church,  where  the  old  men 
and  the  boys  and  the  beggars  sit  on  the  low 
parapet  all  day  long.  Scarce  knowing  how  he 
had  come  there,  Paul  stayed  a  little  while  talk- 
ing to  one  or  another  of  them  without  heeding 
their  replies,  and  then  descended  the  steep 
road  that  led  from  the  village  down  to  the  val- 


THE    MOTHER  107 

ley.  But  he  saw  nothing  of  the  road  he  trod 
nor  the  landscape  before  his  eyes:  his  whole 
world  had  turned  upside-down  and  was  a  mere 
chaos  of  rocks  and  ruins,  upon  which  he  looked 
down  as  boys  lie  flat  on  the  ground  at  the  cliff's 
edge  to  gaze  over  into  the  depths  below. 

He  turned  and  climbed  up  again  towards  the 
church.  The  village  seemed  almost  deserted; 
here  and  there  a  peach  tree  showed  its  ripe 
fruit  over  a  garden  wall  and  little  white  clouds 
floated  across  the  clear  September  sky  like  a 
peaceful  flock  of  sheep.  In  one  house  a  child 
was  crying,  from  another  came  the  regular 
sound  of  the  weaver  at  his  loom.  The  rural 
guardia,  half-keeper,  half-police,  who  had 
charge  of  the  village  also,  the  only  public 
functionary  in  the  place,  came  strolling  along 
the  road  with  his  great  dog  on  a  leash.  He 
wore  a  mixed  costume,  the  hunter's  jacket  of 
discoloured  velvet  with  the  blue,  red-striped 
trousers  of  his  official  uniform,  and  his  dog  was 
a  huge  black  and  red  animal  with  bloodshot 
eyes,  something  between  a  lion  and  a  wolf, 
known  and  feared  by  villagers  and  peasants,  by 
shepherds  and  hunters,  by  thieves  and  children 


io8  THE    MOTHER 

alike.  The  keeper  kept  his  beast  beside  him 
day  and  night,  chiefly  for  fear  of  him  being 
poisoned.  The  dog  growled  when  he  saw  the 
priest,  but  at  a  sign  from  his  master  he  was 
quiet  and  hung  his  head. 

The  keeper  stopped  in  front  of  the  priest 
and  gave  a  military  salute,  then  said  sol- 
emnly : 

"  I  went  early  this  morning  to  see  the  sick 
man.  His  temperature  is  forty,  his  pulse  a  hun- 
dred and  two.  In  my  poor  opinion  he  has  in- 
flammation of  the  loins,  and  his  granddaughter 
wanted  me  to  give  him  quinine."  (The  keeper 
had  charge  of  the  drugs  and  medicines  supplied 
for  the  parish  and  permitted  himself  to  go 
round  visiting  the  sick,  which  was  exceeding  his 
duty,  but  gave  him  importance  in  his  own  eyes, 
as  he  imagined  he  was  thus  taking  the  place  of 
the  doctor  who  only  came  to  the  village  twice  a 
week.)  "  But  I  said,  '  Gently,  my  girl;  in  my 
humble  opinion  he  does  not  want  quinine,  but 
another  sort  of  medicine.'  The  girl  began  to 
cry,  but  she  shed  no  tears;  may  I  die  if  I  judged 
wrongly!  She  wanted  me  to  rush  off  imme- 
diately to  call  the  doctor,  but  I  said,  '  The 


THE    MOTHER  109 

doctor  is  coming  to-morrow,  Sunday,  but  if 
you  are  in  such  a  hurry  then  send  a  man  your- 
self to  fetch  him !  The  sick  man  can  well  afford 
to  pay  a  doctor  to  see  him  die,  he  has  spent  no 
money  during  his  life.'  I  was  quite  right, 
wasn't  I?" 

The  keeper  waited  gravely  for  the  priest's 
approval,  but  Paul  was  looking  at  the  dog,  now 
quiet  and  docile  at  his  master's  bidding,  and 
he  was  thinking  to  himself: 

"  If  we  could  only  thus  keep  our  passions  on 
a  leash !  "  And  then  he  said  aloud,  but  in  an 
absent-minded  way,  "Oh  yes,  he  can  wait 
till  the  doctor  comes  to-morrow.  But  he  is 
seriously  ill,  all  the  same." 

"  Well  then,  if  he  is  seriously  ill,"  persisted 
the  keeper  firmly  and  not  without  contempt  for 
the  priest's  apparent  indifference,  "a  man  had 
better  go  for  the  doctor  at  once.  The  old  fel- 
low can  pay,  he  is  not  a  pauper.  But  his  grand- 
daughter disobeyed  my  orders  and  did  not  give 
him  the  medicine  I  myself  prepared  and  left 
for  him." 

"  He  should  receive  the  Communion  first  of 
all,"  said  Paul. 


no  THE    MOTHER 

"  But  you  have  told  me  that  a  sick  person 
may  receive  the  Communion  even  if  they  are 
not  fasting?  " 

"Well  then,"  said  the  priest,  losing  patience 
at  last,  "  the  old  man  did  not  want  the  medi- 
cine; he  clenched  his  teeth,  and  he  has  them  all 
still  sound,  and  struck  out  as  if  nothing  was 
the  matter  with  him." 

"  And  then  the  granddaughter,  in  my 
humble  opinion,"  continued  the  keeper  indig- 
nantly, "  has  no  right  to  order  me,  an  official, 
to  rush  off  for  the  doctor  as  though  I  were  a 
servant !  It  was  not  a  question  of  an  accident 
or  anything  requiring  the  doctor's  official 
presence,  and  I  have  other  things  to  do.  I  must 
now  go  down  to  the  river  by  the  ford,  because 
I  have  received  information  that  some  bene- 
factor of  his  neighbours  has  placed  dynamite 
in  the  water  to  destroy  the  trout.  My 
respects !  " 

He  repeated  the  military  salute  and  de- 
parted, jerking  his  dog  up  by  the  leash.  Sud- 
denly sharing  its  master's  repressed  contempt, 
the  animal  stalked  off  waving  its  ferocious  tail; 
it  did  not  growl  at  the  priest,  but  merely  turned 


THE    MOTHER  in 

its  head  to  give  him  a  parting  glance  of  menace 
out  of  its  savage  eyes. 

Having  completed  his  preparations  for  car- 
rying extreme  unction  to  the  old  man,  Anti- 
ochus  was  leaning  over  the  parapet  of  the 
piazza  under  the  shade  of  the  elms,  waiting  for 
the  priest;  and  when  he  saw  him  approaching, 
the  boy  darted  into  the  sacristy  and  waited 
with  the  surplice  in  his  hands.  The  pair  were 
ready  in  a  few  minutes,  Paul  in  surplice  and 
stole,  carrying  the  silver  amphora  of  oil, 
Antiochus  robed  in  red  from  head  to  foot  and 
holding  a  brocade  umbrella  with  gold  fringe 
open  over  Paul's  head,  so  that  he  and  his  silver 
amphora  were  in  shadow  whilst  the  boy  himself 
appeared  the  more  brilliant  in  the  sunshine  in 
contrast  to  the  black  and  white  figure  of  the 
priest.  Antiochus's  face  wore  a  look  of  almost 
tragic  gravity,  for  he  was  much  impressed  with 
his  own  importance  and  imagined  himself 
specially  deputed  to  protect  the  holy  oil.  Nev- 
ertheless this  did  not  prevent  him  from  grin- 
ning with  amusement  at  the  sight  of  the  old  men 
hurriedly  shuffling  down  from  the  parapet  as 
the  little  procession  passed,  and  the  boys 


ii2  THE    MOTHER 

kneeling  with  their  faces  to  the  wall  instead  of 
towards  the  priest.  The  youngsters  jumped 
up  immediately,  however,  and  followed  Anti- 
ochus,  who  rang  his  bell  before  each  door  to 
warn  the  people;  dogs  barked,  the  weavers 
stopped  their  looms  and  the  women  thrust  their 
heads  out  of  the  windows  to  see,  and  the  whole 
village  was  in  a  tremor  of  mysterious  excite- 
ment. 

A  woman  who  was  coming  from  the  foun- 
tain bearing  a  jug  of  water  on  her  head  set 
down  her  jug  upon  the  ground  and  knelt  beside 
it.  And  the  priest  grew  pale,  for  he  recognized 
one  of  Agnes's  servants,  and  a  nameless  dread 
seized  upon  him,  so  that  unconsciously  he 
clasped  the  silver  amphora  tightly  between  his 
hands  as  though  seeking  there  support. 

The  attendant  crowd  of  boys  grew  larger  as 
they  approached  the  old  hunter's  dwelling. 
This  was  a  two-story  cottage  built  of  rough 
stone  and  standing  a  little  back  from  the  road 
on  the  side  towards  the  valley;  it  had  a  single 
unglazed  window  and  in  front  a  small  yard  of 
bare  earth  enclosed  by  a  low  wall.  The  door 
stood  open  and  the  priest  knew  that  the  old  man 


THE    MOTHER  113 

was  lying  fully  dressed  on  a  mat  in  the  lower 
room;  so  he  entered  at  once,  reciting  the 
prayers  for  the  sick,  whilst  Antiochus  closed  the 
umbrella  and  rang  his  bell  loudly  to  drive  away 
the  children  as  if  they  were  flies.  But  the  room 
was  empty  and  the  mat  unoccupied;  perhaps 
the  old  man  had  at  last  consented  to  go  to  bed 
or  had  been  carried  there  in  a  dying  condition. 
The  priest  pushed  open  the  door  of  an  inner 
room,  but  that  too  was  empty;  so,  puzzled, 
he  returned  to  the  door,  whence  he  saw  the  old 
man's  granddaughter  limping  down  the  road 
with  a  bottle  in  her  hand.  She  had  been  to 
fetch  the  medicine. 

"  Where  is  your  grandfather?  "  asked  Paul, 
as  the  girl  crossed  herself  on  entering  the  house. 
She  glanced  at  the  empty  mat  and  gave  a 
scream,  and  the  inquisitive  boys  immediately 
swarmed  over  the  wall  and  round  the  door, 
engaging  in  a  free  fight  with  Antiochus,  who 
tried  to  oppose  their  entrance,  till  Paul  himself 
sternly  bade  them  disperse. 

"Where  is  he?  Where  is  he?"  cried  the 
granddaughter,  running  from  room  to  room, 
whereupon  one  of  the  boys,  the  last  to  join 


ii4  THE    MOTHER 

the  crowd,  sauntered  up  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets  and  inquired  casually,  "  Are  you 
looking  for  the  King?  He  went  down  there." 

"Down  where?" 

"  Down  there,"  repeated  the  boy,  pointing 
with  his  nose  towards  the  valley. 

The  girl  rushed  down  the  steep  path  and  the 
boys  after  her :  the  priest  signed  to  Antiochus 
to  reopen  the  umbrella  and  gravely  and  in 
silence  the  two  returned  to  the  church,  whilst 
the  villagers  gathered  together  in  wondering 
groups  and  the  news  of  the  sick  man's  flight 
spread  from  mouth  to  mouth. 


CHAPTER  VII 

PAUL  was  back  again  in  his  quiet  dining- 
room,  seated  at  the  table  and  waited  on 
by  his  mother.  Fortunately  there  was  now 
something  they  dare  talk  about  and  the  flight 
of  King  Nicodemus  was  being  discussed.  Hav- 
ing hastily  deposited  the  silver  amphora  and 
other  things  taken  out  for  the  rite  and  doffed 
his  red  cope,  Antiochus  had  run  off  to  collect 
news.  The  first  time  he  came  back  it  was  with 
a  strange  report;  the  old  man  had  disappeared 
and  his  relations  were  said  to  have  carried 
him  off  in  order  to  get  possession  of  his 
money. 

"  They  say  that  his  dog  and  his  eagle  came 
down  and  carried  him  off  themselves !  "  cor- 
rected some  sceptic  jestingly. 

"  I  don't  believe  in  the  dog,"  said  one  of  the 
old  men,  "but  the  eagle  is  no  joke.  I  remem- 
ber that  when  I  was  a  boy,  one  carried  off  a 

heavy  sheep  from  our  yard." 
"5 


n6  THE    MOTHER 

Then  Antiochus  came  back  with  the  further 
news  that  the  sick  man  had  been  overtaken  half- 
way up  to  the  mountain  plateau,  where  he 
wished  to  die.  The  last  upflickering  of  his 
fever  lent  him  a  fictitious  strength  and  the 
dying  hunter  walked  like  a  somnambulist  to  the 
place  where  he  longed  to  be,  and  in  order  not 
to  worry  him  and  make  him  worse,  his  relatives 
had  accompanied  him  and  seen  him  safely  to  his 
own  hut. 

"  Now  sit  down  and  eat,"  said  the  priest  to 
the  boy. 

Antiochus  obeyed  and  took  his  place  at  the 
table,  but  not  without  first  glancing  inquiringly 
at  the  priest's  mother.  She  smiled  and  signed 
to  him  to  do  as  he  was  bidden  and  the  boy  felt 
that  he  had  become  one  of  the  family.  He 
could  not  know,  innocent  child,  that  the  other 
two,  having  exhausted  the  subject  of  the  old 
hunter,  were  afraid  of  being  alone  together. 
The  mother  would  see  her  son's  uneasy  wander- 
ing eyes  arrested  suddenly,  as  though  upon 
some  unseen  object,  with  a  stony,  sombre  gaze, 
o'ershadowed  by  the  darkness  of  his  mind,  and 
he  in  turn  would  start  from  his  preoccupation, 


THE    MOTHER  117 

aware  that  she  was  observing  him  and  divining 
his  inward  grief.  But  when  she  had  placed  the 
meal  on  the  table  she  left  the  room  and  did  not 
return. 

With  the  bright  noonday  the  wind  rose  again, 
but  now  it  was  a  soft  west  wind  that  scarcely 
stirred  the  trees  upon  the  ridge ;  the  room  was 
flooded  with  sunshine  chequered  by  the  danc- 
ing of  the  leaves  outside  the  window,  and 
white  clouds  drifted  across  the  sky  like  harp- 
strings  whereon  the  wind  played  its  gentle 
music. 

The  charm  was  broken  suddenly  by  a  knock 
at  the  door  and  Antiochus  ran  to  open.  A  pale 
young  widow  with  frightened  eyes  stood  on  the 
threshold  and  asked  to  see  the  priest.  By  the 
hand  she  held  fast  a  little  girl,  with  small,  livid 
face  and  a  red  scarf  tied  over  her  untidy  black 
hair;  and,  as  the  child  dragged  and  struggled 
from  side  to  side  in  her  efforts  to  free  herself, 
her  eyes  blazed  like  a  wild  cat's.  "  She  is  ill," 
said  the  widow,  "  and  I  want  the  priest  to  read 
the  gospel  over  her  to  drive  out  the  evil  spirit 
that  has  taken  possession  of  her." 

Puzzled  and  scared,  Antiochus  stood  holding 


n8  THE    MOTHER 

the  door  half  open:  this  was  not  the  time  to 
worry  the  priest  with  such  matters,  and  more- 
over the  girl,  who  was  twisting  herself  all  to  one 
side  and  trying  to  bite  her  mother's  hand  as 
she  could  not  escape,  was  truly  an  object  of  both 
fear  and  pity. 

"  She  is  possessed,  you  see,"  said  the  widow, 
turning  red  with  shame.  So  then  Antiochus 
let  her  in  immediately  and  even  helped  her  to 
push  in  the  child,  who  clung  to  the  jamb  of  the 
door  and  resisted  with  all  her  might. 

On  hearing  what  was  the  matter  and  that 
this  was  already  the  third  day  on  which  the 
little  victim  had  behaved  so  strangely,  always 
trying  to  escape,  deaf  and  dumb  to  all  per- 
suasions, the  priest  had  her  brought  in  to  him, 
and  taking  her  by  the  shoulders  he  examined 
her  eyes  and  her  mouth. 

"Has  she  been  much  in  the  sun?"  he  in- 
quired. 

"  It's  not  that,"  whispered  the  mother.  "I 
think  she  is  possessed  by  an  evil  spirit.  No," 
she  added,  sobbing,  "  my  little  girl  is  no  longer 
alone!" 

Paul  rose  to  fetch  his  Testament  from  his 


THE    MOTHER  119 

room,  then  stopped  and  sent  Antiochus  for  it. 
The  book  was  placed  open  on  the  table,  and 
with  his  hand  upon  the  burning  head  of  the 
child,  clasped  tightly  in  the  arms  of  her  kneeling 
mother,  he  read  aloud: 

"  And  they  arrived  at  the  country  of  the 
Gadarenes,  which  is  over  against  Galilee.  And 
when  he  went  forth  to  land,  there  met  him  out 
of  the  city  a  certain  man  which  had  devils  a 
long  time,  and  ware  no  clothes,  neither  abode  in 
any  house,  but  in  the  tombs.  When  he  saw 
Jesus  he  cried  out  and  fell  down  before  him, 
and  with  a  loud  voice  said,  '  What  have  I  to  do 
with  thee,  Jesus,  thou  Son  of  God  most  high  ? 
I  beseech  thee,  torment  me  not.' ' 

Antiochus  turned  over  the  page  of  the  book 
and  his  eyes  strayed  to  the  priest's  hand  which 
rested  on  the  table;  at  the  words,  "  What  have 
I  to  do  with  thee,"  he  saw  the  hand  tremble, 
and  looking  up  quickly  he  perceived  that  Paul's 
eyes  were  full  of  tears.  Then,  overcome  by  an 
irresistible  emotion,  the  boy  knelt  down  beside 
the  widow,  but  still  keeping  his  arm  stretched 
out  to  touch  the  book.  And  he  thought  to 
himself: 


120  THE    MOTHER 

"  Surely  he  is  the  best  man  in  all  the  world, 
for  he  weeps  when  he  reads  the  word  of  God !  " 
And  he  did  not  venture  to  raise  his  eyes  again 
to  look  at  Paul,  but  with  his  free  hand  he  pulled 
the  little  girl's  skirt  to  keep  her  quiet,  though 
not  without  a  secret  fear  that  the  demons  who 
were  being  exorcised  from  her  body  would  enter 
into  his  own. 

The  possessed  child  had  ceased  throwing  her- 
self about  and  stood. up  straight  and  stiff,  her 
thin  brown  neck  stretched  to  its  full  length,  her 
little  chin  stuck  forward  over  the  knot  of  her 
kerchief  and  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  priest's 
face.  Gradually  her  expression  changed,  her 
mouth  relaxed  and  opened,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
the  words  of  the  Gospel,  the  murmuring  of  the 
wind  and  the  rustle  of  the  trees  on  the  ridge 
were  working  upon  her  as  a  charm.  Suddenly 
she  tore  her  skirt  from  Antiochus's  restraining 
hand  and  fell  on  her  knees  beside  him,  and  the 
priest's  hand  which  had  rested  upon  her  head 
remained  outstretched  above  it,  as  his  tremu- 
lous voice  continued  reading: 

"  Now  the  man  out  of  whom  the  devils  were 
departed  besought  him  that  he  might  be  with 


THE    MOTHER  121 

him:  but  Jesus  sent  him  away,  saying,  Return 
to  thine  own  house  and  show  how  great  things 
God  hath  done  unto  thee.  .  .  ." 

He  ceased  reading  and  withdrew  his  hand. 
The  child  was  now  perfectly  quiet  and  had 
turned  her  face  wonderingly  towards  the  boy, 
and  in  the  silence  that  succeeded  the  Gospel 
words  nothing  was  audible  save  the  trees  rus- 
tling in  the  breeze  and  the  faint  tap-tap  of  the 
stone-breaker  by  the  roadside. 

Paul  was  suffering  acutely.  Not  for  one 
moment  had  he  shared  the  widow's  superstition 
that  the  girl  was  possessed  by  a  devil  and  he 
felt,  therefore,  that  he  had  been  reading  the 
Gospel  without  belief.  The  only  devil  which 
existed  was  the  one  within  himself,  and  this 
one  would  not  be  driven  forth.  And  yet  there 
had  been  a  moment  when  he  had  felt  nearer  to 
God:  "  What  have  I  to  do  with  thee?  "  And 
it  seemed  to  him  that  those  three  believers  in 
front  of  him,  and  his  own  mother  kneeling  at 
the  kitchen  door,  were  bowed,  not  before  his 
power,  but  before  his  utter  wretchedness.  Yet 
when  the  widow  bent  low  to  kiss  his  feet  he 
drew  back  sharply:  he  thought  of  his  mother, 


122  THE    MOTHER 

who  knew  all,  and  feared  lest  she  should  mis- 
judge him. 

The  widow  was  so  overwhelmed  with  morti- 
fication when  she  raised  her  head  that  the  two 
children  began  to  laugh,  and  even  Paul's  dis- 
tress relaxed  a  little. 

"  That's  all  right,  get  up  now,"  he  said,  "  the 
child  is  quiet." 

They  all  rose  to  their  feet  and  Antiochus  ran 
to  open  the  door,  at  which  now  somebody  else 
was  knocking.  It  was  the  keeper  with  his  dog 
on  the  leash,  and  Antiochus  burst  out  instantly, 
his  face  beaming  with  joy: 

"A  miracle  has  just  happened!  He  has 
driven  out  the  devils  from  the  body  of  Nina 
Masia!" 

But  the  keeper  did  not  believe  in  miracles; 
he  stood  a  little  away  from  the  door  and  said: 

'  Then  let  us  make  room  for  them  to  es- 
cape!" 

"  They  will  enter  into  the  body  of  your  dog," 
cried  Antiochus. 

"  They  cannot  enter  because  they  are  there 
already,"  replied  the  keeper.  He  spoke  in  jest, 
but  maintained  his  usual  gravity.  On  the 


THE    MOTHER  123 

threshold  of  the  room  he  drew  himself  up  and 
saluted  the  priest  without  condescending  even 
to  glance  at  the  women. 

"  Can  I  speak  to  you  in  private,  sir?  " 

The  women  withdrew  into  the  kitchen  and 
Antiochus  carried  the  Testament  upstairs. 
When  he  came  down,  although  still  full  of  ex- 
citement at  the  miracle,  he  stopped  to  listen  to 
what  the  keeper  was  saying: 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  bringing  this  animal 
into  the  house,  but  he  is  quite  clean  and  he  will 
give  no  trouble  because  he  understands  where 
he  is."  (The  dog,  in  fact,  was  standing 
motionless,  with  lowered  eyes  and  hanging 
tail.)  "I've  come  about  the  matter  of  old 
Nicodemus  Pania,  nicknamed  King  Nicodemus. 
He  is  back  in  his  hut  and  has  expressed  the  wish 
to  see  you  again  and  to  receive  extreme  unction. 
In  my  humble  opinion  .  .  ." 

"  Good  heavens !  "  exclaimed  the  priest  im- 
patiently, but  the  next  instant  he  was  filled  with 
childish  joy  at  the  thought  of  going  up  to  the 
mountain  plateau  and  by  physical  exertion  ban- 
ishing for  a  time  the  perplexities  that  tormented 
him. 


124  THE    MOTHER 

'  Yes,  yes,"  he  added  quickly,  "  and  I  shall 
want  a  horse.  What  is  the  road  like?" 

"  I  will  see  about  the  horse  and  the  road," 
said  the  keeper,  "  that  is  my  duty." 

The  priest  offered  him  a  drink.  On  prin- 
ciple the  keeper  never  accepted  anything  from 
anyone,  not  even  a  glass  of  wine,  but  on  this 
occasion  he  felt  that  his  own  civil  functions 
and  the  priest's  religious  functions  were  so 
much  each  a  part  of  the  other  that  he  accepted 
the  invitation;  so  he  drank,  and  emptied  the 
last  drops  of  wine  on  the  ground  (since  the 
earth  claims  her  share  of  whatever  man  con- 
sumes), and  expressed  his  thanks  with  a  mili- 
tary salute.  Then  the  great  dog  wagged  his 
tail  and  looked  up  at  Paul  with  an  offer  of 
friendship  in  his  eyes. 

Antiochus  was  ready  to  open  the  door  again 
and  then  returned  to  the  dining-room  to  await 
orders.  He  was  sorry  for  his  mother,  waiting 
in  vain  for  the  priest  in  the  little  room  behind 
the  bar,  which  had  been  specially  cleaned  up  for 
the  occasion  and  the  tray  with  glasses  placed 
ready  for  the  guest;  but  duty  before  all  things 


THE    MOTHER  125 

and  the  visit  would  obviously  be  impossible 
that  day. 

"What  must  I  prepare?"  he  asked,  imitat- 
ing the  keeper's  solemn  tones.  "  Shall  we  take 
the  umbrella?" 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of  I  I  am  going  on 
horseback  and  you  need  not  come  at  all.  I 
could  take  you  up  behind  me,  however." 

"  No,  I  will  walk,  I  am  never  tired,"  urged 
the  boy,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  was  ready, 
with  a  little  box  in  his  hand  and  his  red  cope 
folded  over  his  arm.  As  far  as  he  was  con- 
cerned, he  would  have  liked  to  take  the  um- 
brella too,  but  he  was  obliged  to  obey  superior 
orders. 

Whilst  he  was  waiting  for  the  priest  in  front 
of  the  church  all  the  ragged  urchins  who  made 
of  the  square  their  regular  playground  and 
battlefield  gathered  round  him  curiously  with- 
out venturing  too  near,  and  regarded  the  box 
with  respect  not  unmixed  with  terror. 

"•Let's  go  nearer,"  said  one. 

"  You  keep  your  distance,  or  I'll  let  loose  the 
keeper's  dog  at  you!  "  shouted  Antiochus. 


126  THE    MOTHER 

"The  keeper's  dog?  Why,  you  daren't  go 
within  ten  miles  of  him!  "  jeered  the  urchins. 

"  Daren't  I?  "  said  Antiochus  with  magnifi- 
cent scorn. 

"  No,  you  daren't !  And  you  think  you're  as 
good  as  the  Lord  Himself  because  you're  carry- 
ing the  holy  oil !  " 

"  If  I  were  you,"  advised  one  open-minded 
youth,  "  I  should  make  off  with  that  box  and 
perform  all  kinds  of  sorceries  with  the  holy 
oil." 

"  Be  off,  you  horse-fly !  The  devil  that  came 
out  of  Nina  Masia's  body  has  entered  into 
yours !  " 

"  What's  that?  The  devil?  "  cried  the  boys 
in  chorus. 

"  Yes,"  said  Antiochus  solemnly,  "  this  very 
afternoon  he  drove  out  a  devil  from  the  body  of 
Nina  Masia.  Here  she  comes." 

The  widow,  leading  the  little  girl  by  the 
hand,  was  just  coming  out  of  the  presbytery; 
the  boys  all  rushed  to  meet  her  and  in  one  mo- 
ment the  news  of  the  miracle  spread  through 
the  village.  Then  occurred  a  scene  which 
recalled  that  which  had  taken  place  on  the  first 


THE    MOTHER  127 

arrival  of  the  priest.  The  whole  population 
assembled  together  in  the  square  and  Nina 
Masia  was  placed  by  her  mother  on  the  top  step 
before  the  church  door,  where  she  sat,  thin  and 
brown-skinned,  with  her  green  eyes  and  the  red 
kerchief  over  her  head,  looking  like  some 
primitive  idol  set  up  to  be  worshipped  by  those 
simple  and  credulous  country  folk. 

The  women  began  to  weep  and  all  wanted  to 
touch  the  girl.  Meanwhile  the  keeper  had 
arrived  on  the  scene  with  his  dog,  and  then  the 
priest  crossed  the  square  on  horseback.  The 
crowd  immediately  collected  around  him  and 
made  a  procession  to  follow  him,  but  whilst  he 
waved  his  hand  to  them  and  turned  from  side  to 
side  acknowledging  their  greetings,  his  annoy- 
ance at  what  had  happened  was  even  greater 
than  his  distress.  When  he  reached  the  top  of 
the  hill  he  reined  in  his  horse  and  seemed  about 
to  speak,  then  suddenly  put  spurs  to  the  animal 
and  rode  rapidly  down  the  road.  He  had  a 
desperate  craving  to  gallop  furiously  away,  to 
escape  through  the  valley  and  lose  himself  and 
his  whole  being  somewhere  in  that  wide  horizon 
spread  out  before  his  gaze. 


128  THE    MOTHER 

The  wind  was  freshening:  the  afternoon 
sun  shone  warmly  on  the  thickets  and  bushes, 
the  river  reflected  the  blue  sky  and  the  spray 
thrown  up  by  the  mill-wheel  sparkled  like  dia- 
monds. The  keeper  with  his  dog  and  Antiochus 
with  his  box  descended  the  hill  soberly,  fully 
conscious  of  their  office,  and  presently  Paul 
drew  rein  and  rode  along  quietly.  After  cross- 
ing the  river  the  road  became  a  mere  path  and 
wound  upwards  towards  the  plateau,  bordered 
by  stones  and  low  walls,  rocks  and  stunted  trees, 
and  the  west  wind  blew  sweet  and  warm,  heavy- 
laden  with  perfume,  as  though  it  had  gathered 
all  the  thyme  flowers  and  wild  roses  it  had 
found  upon  its  way  and  was  now  strewing  them 
again  upon  the  earth. 

The  path  wound  ever  upwards:  when  they 
turned  round  the  side  of  the  hill  and  lost  sight 
of  the  village,  the  world  seemed  nothing  but 
wind  and  stones,  and  white  vapours  that  on  the 
horizon  linked  earth  and  sky  in  one.  From 
time  to  time  the  dog  barked,  and  the  echo  in 
the  hills  seemed  to  bring  him  answers  from 
other  dogs  all  around. 

When  they  were  half-way  to  their  destination 


THE    MOTHER  129 

the  priest  offered  to  take  Antiochus  up  behind 
him  on  the  horse,  but  the  boy  refused,  and 
only  very  unwillingly  yielded  up  the  box.  And 
only  then  did  he  permit  himself  to  open  a  con- 
versation with  the  keeper ;  a  vain  attempt,  how- 
ever, for  the  keeper  never  forgot  his  own 
imaginary  importance  for  one  moment.  Every 
now  and  then  he  would  stop,  with  a  portentous 
frown,  and  drawing  the  peak  of  his  cap  low 
over  his  eyes  he  would  inspect  the  landscape 
on  every  side,  as  though  the  whole  world  be- 
longed to  him  and  were  threatened  with  some 
imminent  peril.  Then  the  dog  would  stop  too, 
rigid  on  his  four  paws,  snuffing  the  wind  and 
quivering  from  ears  to  tail.  Luckily  all  was 
serene  on  that  windy  afternoon,  the  only  mov- 
ing things  in  sight  being  the  agile  goats  climb- 
ing on  distant  rocks,  black  silhouettes  against 
the  blue  sky  and  rosy  clouds. 

At  last  they  came  to  a  sort  of  declivity 
covered  with  masses  of  granite,  a  regular 
waterfall  of  rocks  balanced  one  upon  another 
with  marvellous  precision.  Antiochus  recog- 
nized the  place,  as  he  had  once  been  there 
with  his  father,  and  whilst  the  priest  kept  to 


i3o  THE    MOTHER 

the  path,  which  wound  some  considerable  way 
round,  and  the  keeper  followed  him  as  in  duty 
bound,  the  boy  scrambled  down  from  rock  to 
rock  and  was  the  first  to  reach  the  hut  of  the 
old  hunter. 

The  hut  was  a  ramshackle  erection  of  logs 
and  boughs  surrounded  by  a  partly  natural 
enclosure  of  great  boulders,  against  which  the 
old  man,  in  order  to  complete  this  sort  of 
prehistoric  fortress,  had  piled  other  stones  in 
large  numbers.  The  sun  slanted  down  into 
this  enclosure  as  into  a  well:  the  view  was 
completely  shut  in  on  three  sides,  and  only  on 
the  right,  between  two  rocks,  a  silver  streak  in 
the  blue  distance,  might  be  discerned  the  sea. 

On  hearing  steps  the  old  man's  grandson 
thrust  his  curly  black  head  out  of  the  hut  door. 

"  They  are  coming,"  announced  Antiochus. 

"Who  are  coming?" 

"  The  priest  and  the  keeper." 

The  man  sprang  out,  as  agile  and  hairy  as 
his  own  goats,  and  swore  roundly  at  the  keeper 
for  always  interfering  in  other  people's  business. 

"I'll  break  all  his  bones  for  him  I"  he 
growled  threateningly,  but  when  he  saw  the  dog 


THE    MOTHER  131 

he  drew  back,  while  the  old  man's  dog  ran  for- 
ward to  sniff  at  and  greet  the  visitor. 

Antiochus  took  charge  of  the  box  again  and 
sat  down  on  a  stone  facing  the  opening  in  the 
rocks.  All  around  were  an  immense  number 
of  wild-boar-skins,  striped  black  and  grey,  and 
of  marten  skins  flecked  with  gold,  spread  out 
on  the  rocks  to  dry.  Inside  the  hut  he  could 
see  the  form  of  the  old  man  lying  on  a  heap  of 
other  skins,  his  dark  face,  framed  in  the  white 
hair  and  beard,  already  set  in  the  composure 
of  approaching  death.  The  priest  was  bending 
down  to  interrogate  him,  but  the  dying  man 
made  no  reply,  and  lay  with  closed  eyes  and  a 
drop  of  blood  trembling  on  his  violet  lips. 
A  little  way  off,  on  another  stone,  sat  the 
keeper  with  his  dog  stretched  at  his  feet  and 
his  eyes  also  fixed  on  the  interior  of  the  hut. 
He  was  indignant  because  the  dying  man  was 
disobeying  the  law  in  not  declaring  what  was 
his  last  will  and  testament,  and  as  Antiochus 
turned  his  mischievous  eyes  in  that  direction  he 
thought  somewhat  maliciously  that  the  keeper 
would  have  liked  to  set  his  dog  on  the  stubborn 
old  hunter  as  on  a  thief. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

INSIDE  the  hut  the  priest  bent  still  lower, 
his  hands  clasped  between  his  knees,  his 
face  heavy  with  weariness  and  displeasure.  He 
too  was  silent  now:  he  almost  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  why  he  was  there  and  sat  listening  to 
the  wind  as  if  it  were  the  distant  murmur  of 
the  sea.  Suddenly  the  keeper's  dog  sprang  up 
barking,  and  Antiochus  heard  the  rustle  of 
wings  over  his  head :  he  looked  up  and  saw  the 
old  hunter's  tame  eagle  alighting  on  a  rock, 
with  its  great  wings  outspread  and  slowly  beat- 
ing the  air  like  an  immense  black  fan. 

Inside  the  hut  Paul  was  thinking  to  himself : 
"  And  this  is  death.  This  man  fled  from 
other  men  because  he  was  afraid  of  committing 
murder  or  some  other  great  crime.  And  here 
he  lies  now,  a  stone  amongst  stones.  So  shall 
I  lie  in  thirty,  forty  years,  after  an  exile  that 
has  lasted  through  eternity.  And  perhaps  she 

will  still  be  expecting  me  to-night  .  .  ." 
133 


134  THE    MOTHER 

He  started  up.  Ah,  no,  he  was  not  dead  as 
he  had  thought:  life  was  beating  within  him, 
surging  up  strong  and  tenacious  like  the  eagle 
amongst  the  stones. 

"  I  must  remain  up  here  all  night,"  he  told 
himself.  "  If  I  can  get  through  this  night 
without  seeing  her  I  shall  be  saved." 

He  went  outside  and  sat  down  beside  Anti- 
ochus.  The  sun  was  sinking  in  a  crimson  sky, 
the  shadows  of  the  high  rocks  were  lengthen- 
ing over  the  enclosure  and  the  wind-tossed 
bushes,  and  in  the  same  way  as  he  could  not 
distinguish  objects  clearly  in  the  uncertain  light 
without,  so  Paul  could  not  tell  which  of  the 
two  desires  within  him  was  the  strongest. 
Presently  he  said: 

"  The  old  man  cannot  speak  now,  he  is  dy- 
ing. It  is  time  to  administer  extreme  unction, 
and  if  he  dies  we  must  arrange  for  the  body  to 
be  moved.  It  will  be  necessary  .  .  ."  he  added 
as  though  to  himself,  but  did  not  dare  to  com- 
plete the  sentence,  "  it  will  be  necessary  to 
spend  the  night  here." 

Antiochus  got  up  and  began  to  make  prepa- 
rations for  the  ceremony.  He  opened  the  box, 


THE    MOTHER  135 

pressing  the  silver  fasteners  with  enjoyment, 
and  drew  out  the  white  cloth  and  the  amphora 
of  oil:  then  he  unfolded  his  red  cope  and  put 
it  on — he  might  have  been  himself  the  priest! 
When  everything  was  ready  they  went  back 
into  the  hut,  where  the  grandson,  on  his  knees, 
was  supporting  the  dying  man's  head.  Anti- 
ochus  knelt  down  on  the  other  side,  with  the 
folds  of  his  cope  spread  out  on  the  ground.  He 
laid  the  white  cloth  over  the  stone  that  served 
as  a  table,  and  the  scarlet  of  his  cope  was 
reflected  in  the  silver  amphora.  The  keeper, 
too,  knelt  down  outside  the  hut,  with  his  dog 
beside  him. 

Then  the  priest  anointed  the  old  man's  fore- 
head, and  the  palms  of  his  hands  which  had 
never  sought  to  do  violence  to  anyone,  and  his 
feet  which  had  borne  him  far  from  men  as  from 
evil  itself. 

The  setting  sun  shone  direct  into  the  hut 
with  a  last  dazzling  splendour,  lighting  up 
Antiochus  in  his  scarlet  cope,  so  that  between 
the  old  man  and  the  priest  he  looked  like  a 
live  coal  amongst  dead  cinders. 

"  I  shall  have  to  go  back,"  thought  Paul. 


136  THE    MOTHER 

"  I  have  no  excuse  for  remaining  here." 
Presently  he  went  outside  the  hut  and  said: 
"  There  is  no  hope,  he  is  quite  unconscious." 

"  Comatose,"  said  the  keeper  with  precision. 

"  He  cannot  live  more  than  a  few  hours  and 
arrangements  must  be  made  for  transporting 
the  body  down  to  the  village,"  continued  Paul; 
and  he  longed  to  add,  "  And  I  must  stay  here 
all  night,"  but  he  was  ashamed  of  his  untruth. 

Moreover  he  was  beginning  now  to  feel  the 
need  of  walking  and  a  craving  to  get  back  to 
the  village.  As  night  fell  the  thought  of  sin 
began  subtly  to  attract  him  again  and  drew 
him  in  with  the  invisible  net  of  darkness.  He 
felt  it  and  was  afraid;  but  he  kept  guard  over 
himself,  and  he  knew  his  conscience  was  awake 
and  ready  to  uphold  him. 

"  If  only  I  could  get  through  this  one  night 
without  seeing  her  I  should  be  saved!"  was 
his  silent  cry.  If  only  some  one  would  detain 
him  by  force!  If  the  old  man  would  revive 
and  hold  him  fast  by  the  hem  of  his  robe ! 

He  sat  down  again  and  cast  about  for  some 
excuse  for  delaying  his  departure.  The  sun 
had  now  sunk  below  the  edge  of  the  high  pla- 


THE    MOTHER  137 

teau,  and  the  trunks  of  the  oaks  stood  out 
boldly  against  the  red  glow  of  the  sky  like  the 
pillars  of  some  gigantic  portico,  surmounted  by 
an  immense  black  roof.  Not  even  the  presence 
of  death  could  mar  the  peace  of  that  majestic 
solitude.  Paul  was  weary  and,  as  in  the  morn- 
ing at  the  foot  of  the  altar,  he  would  have 
liked  to  lie  down  upon  the  stones  and  fall 
asleep. 

Meanwhile  the  keeper  had  come  to  a  de- 
cision on  his  own  account.  He  entered  the  hut 
and,  kneeling  down  beside  the  dying  man, 
whispered  something  into  his  ear.  The  grand- 
son looked  on  with  suspicion  and  contempt,  then 
approached  the  priest  and  said: 

"  Now  that  you  have  done  your  duty,  depart 
in  peace.  I  know  what  has  to  be  done  now." 

At  that  moment  the  keeper  came  outside 
again. 

"  He  is  past  speaking,"  he  said,  "  but  he  gave 
me  to  understand  by  a  sign  that  he  has  put  all 
his  affairs  in  order.  Nicodemus  Pania,"  he 
added,  turning  towards  the  grandson,  "  can 
you  assure  us  on  your  conscience  that  we  may 
leave  here  with  quiet  minds?  " 


138  THE    MOTHER 

"  Except  for  the  holy  sacrament  of  extreme 
unction,  you  need  not  have  come  at  all.  What 
business  have  you  to  meddle  in  my  affairs?" 
answered  the  grandson  truculently. 

"  We  must  carry  out  the  law !  And  don't 
raise  your  voice  like  that,  Nicodemus  Pania!  " 
retorted  the  keeper. 

"  Enough,  enough,  no  shouting,"  said  the 
priest,  pointing  to  the  hut. 

"  You  are  always  teaching  that  there  is  only 
one  duty  in  life,  and  that  is  to  do  one's  own 
duty,"  said  the  keeper  sententiously. 

Paul  sprang  to  his  feet,  struck  by  those 
words.  Everything  he  heard  now  seemed 
meant  specially  for  him,  and  he  thought  God 
was  making  known  His  will  through  the  mouths 
of  men.  He  mounted  his  horse  and  said  to 
the  old  man's  grandson : 

"  Stay  with  your  grandfather  until  he  is 
dead.  God  is  great  and  we  never  know  what 
may  happen." 

The  man  accompanied  him  part  of  the  way, 
and  when  they  were  out  of  earshot  of  the 
keeper  he  said: 

"  Listen,  sir.     My  grandfather  did  give  his 


THE    MOTHER  139 

money  into  my  charge;  it's  here,  inside  my 
coat.  It  is  not  much,  but  whatever  it  is,  it 
belongs  to  me,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

"  If  your  grandfather  gave  it  to  you  for 
yourself  alone,  then  it  is  yours,"  replied  Paul, 
turning  round  to  see  if  the  others  were  fol- 
lowing. 

They  were  following.  Antiochus  was  leaning 
on  a  stick  he  had  fashioned  for  himself  out  of 
the  branch  of  a  tree,  and  the  keeper,  the  glazed 
peak  of  his  cap  and  the  buttons  of  his  tunic 
reflecting  the  last  rays  of  the  evening  light, 
had  halted  at  the  corner  of  the  path  and  was 
giving  the  military  salute  in  the  direction  of 
the  hut.  He  was  saluting  death.  And  from 
his  rocky  perch  the  eagle  answered  the  salute 
with  a  last  flap  of  his  great  wings  before  he 
too  went  to  sleep. 


The  shades  of  night  crept  rapidly  up  from 
the  valley  and  soon  enveloped  the  three  way- 
farers. When  they  had  crossed  the  river, 
however,  and  had  turned  into  the  path  that  led 
up  towards  home,  their  road  was  lit  up  by  a 


140  THE    MOTHER 

distant  glare  that  came  from  the  village  itself. 
It  looked  as  if  the  whole  place  were  on  fire; 
huge  flames  were  leaping  on  the  summit  of  the 
ridge,  and  the  keepers'  keen  sight  distinguished 
numerous  figures  moving  about  in  the  square 
in  front  of  the  church.  It  was  a  Saturday, 
and  nearly  all  the  men  would  have  returned 
to  their  homes  for  the  Sunday  rest,  but  this 
did  not  explain  the  reason  for  the  bonfires  and 
the  unusual  excitement  in  the  village. 

"  I  know  what  it  is !  "  called  Antiochus  joy- 
fully. "  They  are  waiting  for  us  to  come  back, 
and  they  are  going  to  celebrate  the  miracle  of 
Nina  Masia!  " 

"  Good  heavens  I  Are  you  quite  mad,  Anti- 
ochus?" cried  the  priest,  with  something  akin 
to  terror  as  he  gazed  at  the  hill-side  below  the 
village,  over  which  the  bonfires  were  casting 
their  lurid  glare. 

The  keeper  made  no  remark,  but  in  con- 
temptuous silence  he  rattled  the  dog's  chain 
and  the  animal  barked  loudly.  Whereupon 
hoarse  shouts  and  yells  echoed  through  the 
valley,  and  to  the  priest  in  his  misery  it  seemed 
as  though  some  mysterious  voice  were  protest- 


THE    MOTHER  141 

ing  against  the  way  in  which  he  had  imposed 
on  the  simplicity  of  his  parishioners. 

"What  have  I  done  to  them?"  he  asked 
himself.  "  I  have  made  fools  of  them  just  as 
I  have  made  a  fool  of  myself.  May  God  save 
us  all!" 

Suggestions  for  heroic  action  rushed  into 
his  mind.  When  he  reached  the  village  he 
would  stop  in  the  midst  of  his  people  and  con- 
fess his  sin;  he  would  tear  open  his  breast 
before  them  all  and  show  them  his  wretched 
heart,  consumed  with  grief,  but  burning  more 
fiercely  with  the  flame  of  his  anguish  than  the 
fires  of  brushwood  upon  the  ridge. 

But  here  the  voice  of  his  conscience  spoke: 

"  It  is  their  faith  that  they  are  celebrating. 
They  are  glorifying  God  in  thee  and  thou  hast 
no  right  to  thrust  thyself  and  thy  wretched- 
ness between  them  and  God." 

But  from  deeper  still  within  him  another 
voice  made  itself  heard: 

"  It  is  not  that.  It  is  because  thou  art  base 
and  vile  and  art  afraid  of  suffering,  of  burning 
in  very  truth." 

And  the  nearer  they  came  to  the  village  and 


i42  THE    MOTHER 

the  men,  the  more  abased  did  Paul  feel.  As  the 
leaping  flames  fought  with  the  shadows  on 
the  hill-side  so  light  and  darkness  seemed  to 
fight  in  his  conscience,  and  he  did  not  know 
what  to  do.  He  remembered  his  first  arrival 
in  the  village  years  ago,  with  his  mother  fol- 
lowing him  anxiously  as  she  had  followed  the 
first  steps  of  his  infancy. 

"  And  I  have  fallen  in  her  sight,"  he  groaned. 
"  She  thinks  she  has  raised  me  up  again,  but 
I  am  wounded  to  death." 

Then  suddenly  he  bethought  him,  with  a 
sense  of  relief,  that  this  improvised  festival 
would  help  him  out  of  his  difficulty  and  avert 
the  danger  he  feared. 

"  I  will  invite  some  of  them  to  the  presbytery 
to  spend  the  evening,  and  they  are  sure  to  stay 
late.  If  I  can  get  through  this  night  I  shall 
be  safe." 

The  black  figures  of  the  men  leaning  over  the 
parapet  of  the  square  could  now  be  distin- 
guished, and  higher  up,  behind  the  church,  the 
flames  of  the  bonfires  were  waving  in  the  air 
like  long  red  flags.  The  bells  were  not  ring- 
ing as  on  that  former  occasion,  but  the  melan- 


THE    MOTHER  143 

choly  sound  of  a  concertina  accompanied  the 
general  uproar. 

All  at  once  from  the  top  of  the  church  tower 
there  shot  up  a  silver  star,  which  instantly 
broke  into  a  thousand  sparks  with  an  explosion 
that  echoed  through  the  valley.  A  shout  of 
delight  went  up  from  the  crowd,  followed  by 
another  brilliant  shower  of  sparks  and  the  noise 
of  shots  being  fired.  They  were  letting  off 
their  guns  in  sign  of  rejoicing,  as  they  did  on 
the  nights  of  the  great  feasts. 

"  They  have  gone  mad,"  said  the  keeper, 
and  he  ran  off  at  full  speed  in  advance,  the  dog 
barking  fiercely  as  though  there  were  some 
revolt  to  be  quelled  up  there. 

Antiochus,  on  the  other  hand,  felt  inclined 
to  weep.  He  looked  at  the  priest  sitting 
straight  upright  on  his  horse  and  thought  he 
resembled  some  saint  carried  in  procession. 
Nevertheless,  his  reflections  took  a  practical 
turn: 

"  My  mother  will  do  good  business  to-night 
with  all  these  merry  folk!  " 

And  he  felt  so  happy  that  he  unfolded  the 
cope  and  threw  it  over  his  shoulders.  Then 


144  THE    MOTHER 

he  wanted  to  carry  the  box  again,  though  he 
would  not  give  up  his  new  stick,  and  thus  he 
entered  the  village  looking  like  one  of  the 
Three  Kings. 

The  old  hunter's  granddaughter  called  to 
the  priest  from  her  door  and  asked  for  news 
of  her  grandfather. 

"  All  is  well,"  said  Paul. 

"Then  grandfather  is  better,  is  he?" 
'  Your  grandfather  is  dead  by  this  time." 

She  gave  a  scream,  and  that  was  the  only 
discordant  note  of  the  festival. 

The  boys  had  already  gone  down  the  hill  to 
meet  the  priest;  they  swarmed  round  his  horse 
like  a  cloud  of  flies,  and  all  went  up  together 
to  the  church  square.  The  people  there  were 
not  so  numerous  as  they  had  looked  from  a 
distance,  and  the  presence  of  the  keeper  with 
his  dog  had  infused  some  sort  of  order  into  the 
proceedings.  The  men  were  ranged  round  the 
parapet  underneath  the  trees  and  some  were 
drinking  in  front  of  the  little  wineshop  kept  by 
the  mother  of  Antiochus:  the  women,  their 
sleeping  infants  in  their  arms,  were  sitting  on 
the  church  steps,  and  in  the  midst  of  them 


r 

THE    MOTHER  145 

sat  Nina  Masia,  as  quiet  now  as  a  drowsy 
cat. 

In  the  centre  of  the  square  stood  the  keeper 
with  his  dog,  as  stiff  as  a  statue. 

On  the  arrival  of  the  priest  they  all  got  up 
and  gathered  round  him ;  but  the  horse,  secretly 
spurred  by  its  rider,  started  forward  towards 
a  street  on  the  opposite  side  from  the  church, 
where  was  the  house  of  its  master.  Where- 
upon the  master,  who  happened  to  be  one  of 
the  men  drinking  in  front  of  the  wineshop,  came 
forward  glass  in  hand  and  caught  the  animal  by 
the  bridle. 

"  Heh,  nag,  what  are  you  thinking  of?  Here 
lam!" 

The  horse  stopped  immediately,  nuzzling 
towards  its  master  as  if  it  wanted  to  drink  the 
wine  in  his  glass.  The  priest  made  a  movement 
to  dismount,  but  the  man  held  him  fast  by  one 
leg,  while  he  led  horse  and  rider  in  front  of  the 
wineshop,  where  he  stretched  out  his  glass  to 
a  companion  who  was  holding  the  bottle. 

The  whole  crowd,  men  and  women,  now 
formed  a  circle  round  the  priest.  In  the  lighted 
doorway  of  the  wineshop,  smiling  at  the  scene, 


146  THE    MOTHER 

stood  the  tall,  gipsy-like  figure  of  Antiochus's 
mother,  her  face  almost  bronze-coloured  in 
the  reflection  of  the  bonfires.  The  babies  had 
wakened  up  startled  and  were  struggling  in 
their  mothers'  arms,  the  gold  and  coral  amulets 
with  which  all.  even  the  poorest,  was  adorned, 

~ 

this  restless  throng,  confused  grey  figures  in 
the  darkness,  sat  the  priest  high  upon,  his 
horse,  in  very  truth  like  a  shepherd  in  the 
midst  of  his  flock. 

A  white-bearded  old  man  placed  his  hand 
on  Paul's  knee  and  turned  towards  the  people. 

"  Good  folk,"  he  said  in  a  voice  shaking  with 
emotion,  "  this  is  truly  a  man  of  God!  " 

"  Then  drink  to  a  good  vintage !  "  cried  the 
owner  of  the  horse  offering  the  glass,  which 
Paul  accepted  and  immediately  put  to  his  lips; 
but  his  teeth  shook  against  the  edge  of  the  glass 
as  though  the  red  wine  glowing  in  the  light  of 
the  fires  were  not  wine,  but  blood. 


CHAPTER  IX 

PAUL  was  seated  again  at  his  own  table  in 
the  little  dining-room,  lighted  by  an  oil 
lamp.  Behind  the  ridge,  which  looked  a  moun- 
tain as  seen  from  the  presbytery  window,  the 
full  moon  was  rising  in  the  pale  sky. 

He  had  invited  several  of  the  villagers  to 
come  in  and  keep  him  company,  amongst  them 
the  old  man  with  the  white  beard  and  the  owner 
of  the  horse,  and  they  were  still  sitting  there 
drinking  and  joking,  and  telling  hunting  stories. 
The  old  man  with  the  white  beard,  a  hunter 
himself,  was  criticizing  King  Nicodemus  be- 
cause, in  his  opinion,  the  old  recluse  did  not  con- 
duct his  hunting  according  to  the  law  of  God. 

"  I  don't  want  to  speak  ill  of  him  in  his  last 
hour,"  he  was  saying;  "but  to  tell  the  truth, 
he  went  out  hunting  simply  as  a  speculation. 
Now  last  winter  he  must  have  made  thousands 
of  lire  by  marten  skins  alone.  God  allows  us 

to  shoot  animals,  but  not  to  exterminate  them  I 
14? 


i48  THE    MOTHER 

And  he  used  to  snare  them,  too,  and  that  is 
forbidden,  because  animals  feel  pain  just  as  we 
do,  and  the  hours  they  lie  caught  in  the  snares 
must  be  terrible.  Once  I  myself,  with  these 
very  eyes,  I  saw  a  snare  where  a  hare  had  left 
her  foot.  Do  you  understand  what  that  means  ? 
The  hare  had  been  caught  in  the  snare  and 
had  gnawed  the  flesh  away  all  round  her  foot, 
and  had  broken  her  leg  off  to  get  free.  And 
what  did  Nicodemus  do  with  his  money,  after 
all?  He  hid  it,  and  now  his  grandson  will 
drink  it  all  in  a  few  days." 

"  Money  is  made  to  be  spent,"  said  the 
owner  of  the  horse,  a  man  much  given  to  boast- 
ing; "  I  myself,  for  instance,  I  have  always 
spent  freely  and  enjoyed  myself,  without  hurt- 
ing anyone.  Once  at  our  festival,  having  noth- 
ing else  to  do,  I  stopped  a  man  who  sold  silk 
reels  and  happened  to  be  passing  with  a  load 
of  his  goods;  I  bought  the  whole  lot,  then  I 
set  them  rolling  about  on  the  piazza  and  ran 
after  them,  kicking  them  here  and  there  and 
everywhere !  In  one  instant  the  whole  crowd 
was  after  me,  laughing  and  yelling,  and  the 
boys  and  young  men,  and  even  some  of  the 


THE    MOTHER  149 

older  men  began  to  imitate  me.  That  was  a 
game  that's  not  forgotten  yet!  Every  time  the 
old  priest  saw  me  he  used  to  shout  from  ever 
so  far:  'Hallo,  Pasquale  Masia,  haven't  you 
any  reels  to  set  rolling  to-day?'  ' 

All  the  guests  laughed  at  the  tale,  only  Paul 
seemed  absent-minded  and  looked  pale  and 
tired.  The  old  man  with  the  white  beard,  who 
was  observing  him  with  reverent  affection, 
winked  at  his  companions  to  suggest  an  imme- 
diate departure.  It  was  time  to  leave  the  ser- 
vant of  God  to  his  holy  solitude  and  well- 
merited  repose. 

The  guests  rose  from  their  seats  all  together 
and  took  respectful  leave  of  their  host;  and 
Paul  found  himself  alone,  between  the  flick- 
ering flame  of  the  oil  lamp  and  the  calm  splen- 
dour of  the  moon  that  shone  in  through  the 
high  window,  while  the  sound  of  the  heavy  iron- 
shod  shoes  of  his  departing  guests  echoed  down 
the  deserted  street. 

It  was  yet  early  to  go  to  bed,  and  although 
he  was  utterly  worn  out  and  his  shoulders  ached 
with  fatigue,  as  though  he  had  been  bearing  a 
heavy  yoke  all  the  day,  he  had  no  thought  of 


150  THE    MOTHER 

going  up  to  his  own  room.  His  mother  was  still 
in  the  kitchen :  he  could  not  see  her  from  where 
he  sat,  but  he  knew  that  she  was  watching  as  on 
the  previous  night. 

The  previous  night!  He  felt  as  if  he  had 
been  suddenly  awakened  out  of  a  long  sleep,  and 
the  distress  of  his  return  home  from  the  house 
of  Agnes,  and  his  thoughts  in  the  night,  the 
letter,  the  Mass,  the  journey  up  the  mountain, 
the  villagers'  demonstration,  had  all  been  only 
a  dream.  His  real  life  was  beginning  again 
now :  he  had  but  to  take  a  step,  a  dozen  steps, 
to  open  the  door  .  .  .  and  go  back  to  her.  .  .  . 
His  real  life  was  beginning  again. 

"  But  perhaps  she  is  not  expecting  me  any 
longer.  Perhaps  she  will  never  expect  me 
again !  " 

Then  he  felt  his  knees  trembling  and  terror 
took  hold  of  him  again,  not  at  the  thought  of 
going  back  to  her,  but  at  the  thought  that  she 
might  have  accepted  her  fate  and  be  already 
beginning  to  forget  him. 

Then  he  realized  that  in  the  depths  of  his 
heart  the  hardest  thing  to  bear  since  he  came 
down  from  the  mountain  had  been  this — not 


THE    MOTHER  151 

knowing  anything  about  her,  her  silence,  her 
vanishing  out  of  his  life. 

This  was  the  veritable  death,  that  she  should 
cease  to  love  him. 

He  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and  tried  to 
bring  her  image  before  his  mind's  eye,  then  he 
began  to  reproach  her  for  those  things  for 
which  she  might  justly  have  reproached  him. 

"  Agnes,  you  cannot  forget  your  promises ! 
How  can  you  forget  them?  You  held  my 
wrists  in  your  two  strong  hands  and  said  to  me : 
'  We  are  bound  to  each  other  for  ever,  in  life 
and  in  death.'  Is  it  possible  that  you  can  for- 
get? You  said,  you  know  .  .  ." 

His  fingers  gripped  at  his  collar,  for  he  was 
suffocating  with  his  distress. 

"  The  devil  has  caught  me  in  his  snare,"  he 
thought,  and  remembered  the  hare  who  had 
gnawed  off  her  own  foot. 

He  drew  a  deep  breath,  rose  from  his  chair, 
and  took  up  the  lamp.  He  determined  to 
conquer  his  will,  to  gnaw  his  own  flesh  also  if 
thereby  he  could  only  free  himself.  Now  he 
decided  to  go  up  to  his  room,  but  as  he  moved 
towards  the  hall  he  saw  his  mother  sitting  in 


152  THE    MOTHER 

her  accustomed  place  in  the  silent  kitchen,  and 
beside  her  was  Antiochus  fast  asleep.  He  went 
to  the  door. 

"  Why  is  that  boy  still  here?  "  he  asked. 

His  mother  looked  at  him  hesitatingly:  she 
would  have  preferred  not  to  answer,  but  to  have 
hidden  Antiochus  behind  her  wide  skirts  in 
order  that  Paul  should  not  wait  up  any  longer, 
but  go  to  his  room  and  to  bed.  Her  faith  in 
him  was  now  completely  restored,  but  she  too 
thought  of  the  devil  and  his  snares.  At  this 
moment,  however,  Antiochus  woke  up  and 
remembered  very  well  why  he  was  still  waiting 
there,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  woman  had 
several  times  asked  him  to  go. 

"I  was  waiting  here  because  my  mother  is 
expecting  a  visit  from  you,"  he  explained. 

"  But  is  this  a  time  of  night  to  go  paying 
visits?  "  protested  the  priest's  mother.  "  Come 
now,  be  off  with  you,  and  tell  her  that  Paul  is 
tired  and  will  go  and  see  her  to-morrow." 

She  spoke  to  the  boy,  but  she  was  looking  at 
her  son :  she  saw  his  glassy  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
lamp,  but  his  eyelids  quivered  like  the  wings  of 
a  moth  in  a  candle. 


THE    MOTHER  153 

Antiochus  got  up  with  an  expression  of  deep 
disappointment. 

"  But  my  mother  is  expecting  him;  she  thinks 
it's  something  important." 

"  If  it  was  anything  important  he  would  go 
and  tell  her  at  once.  Come,  be  off  with  you !  " 

She  spoke  sharply,  and  as  Paul  looked  at  her 
his  eyes  lit  up  again  with  quick  resentment: 
he  saw  that  his  mother  was  afraid  lest  he  should 
go  out  again,  and  the  knowledge  filled  him  with 
unreasoning  anger.  He  banged  the  lamp  down 
on  the  table  again  and  called  to  Antiochus: 

"  We  will  go  and  see  your  mother." 

In  the  hall,  however,  he  turned  and  added: 

"  I  shall  be  back  directly,  mother;  don't 
fasten  the  door." 

She  had  not  moved  from  where  she  sat,  but 
when  the  two  had  left  the  house  she  went  to 
peep  through  the  half-open  door  and  saw  them 
cross  the  moonlit  square  and  enter  the  wine- 
shop, which  was  still  lighted  up.  Then  she 
went  back  to  the  kitchen  and  began  her  vigil 
as  on  the  previous  night. 

She  marvelled  at  herself  to  find  that  she  was 
no  longer  afraid  of  the  old  priest  reappearing; 


154  THE    MOTHER 

it  had  all  been  a  dream.  At  the  bottom  of  her 
heart,  however,  she  did  not  feel  at  all  certain 
that  the  ghost  would  not  come  back  and  demand 
his  mended  socks. 

"  I  have  mended  them  all  right,"  she  said 
aloud,  thinking  of  those  she  had  mended  for 
her  son.  And  she  felt  that  even  if  the  ghost 
did  come  back  she  would  be  able  to  hold  her 
own  with  him  and  keep  on  friendly  terms. 

Complete  silence  reigned  all  round.  Out- 
side the  window  the  trees  shone  silver  in  the 
bright  moonlight,  the  sky  was  like  a  milky  sea, 
and  the  perfume  of  the  aromatic  shrubs  pene- 
trated even  into  the  house.  And  the  mother 
herself  was  tranquil  now,  though  she  hardly 
knew  why,  seeing  that  Paul  might  yet  fall 
again  into  sin;  but  she  no  longer  felt  the  same 
terror  of  it.  She  saw  again  in  her  mind's  eye 
the  lashes  trembling  on  his  cheeks,  like  those 
of  a  child  about  to  cry,  and  her  mother's  heart 
melted  with  tenderness  and  pity. 

"  And  why,  oh  Lord,  why,  why?  " 

She  dared  not  complete  her  question,  but  it 
remained  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart  like  a 
stone  at  the  bottom  of  a  well.  Why,  oh  Lord, 


THE    MOTHER  155 

was  Paul  forbidden  to  love  a  woman?  Love 
was  lawful  for  all,  even  for  servants  and  herds- 
men, even  for  the  blind  and  for  convicts  in 
prison;  so  why  should  Paul,  her  child,  be  the 
only  one  to  whom  love  was  forbidden? 

Then  again  the  consciousness  of  reality 
forced  itself  on  her.  She  remembered  the 
words  of  Antiochus,  and  was  ashamed  of  being 
less  wise  than  a  boy. 

"  They  themselves,  the  youngest  amongst 
the  priests,  asked  permission  to  live  chaste  and 
free,  apart  from  women." 

Moreover,  her  Paul  was  a  strong  man,  in  no 
wise  inferior  to  his  ancient  predecessors.  He 
would  never  give  way  to  tears;  his  eyelids 
would  close  over  eyes  dry  as  those  of  the  dead, 
for  he  was  a  strong  man. 

"  I  am  growing  childish !  "  she  sobbed. 

She  felt  as  if  she  had  grown  twenty  years 
older  in  that  one  long  day  of  wearing  emotions : 
each  hour  that  passed  had  added  to  the  burden 
she  bore,  each  minute  had  struck  a  blow  upon 
her  soul  as  the  hammer  of  the  stone-breaker 
struck  upon  the  heaps  of  broken  rock  there 
behind  the  ridge.  So  many  things  now  seemed 


156  THE    MOTHER 

clear  to  her,  different  from  on  the  previous  day. 
The  figure  of  Agnes  came  before  her,  with  the 
proud  look  that  concealed  all  she  really  felt. 

"She  is  strong  too,"  thought  the  mother; 
u  she  will  hide  everything." 

Then  slowly  she  rose  from  her  chair  and 
began  to  cover  the  fire  with  ashes,  banking  it 
up  carefully  so  that  no  sparks  could  fly  out  and 
set  fire  to  anything  near:  then  she  shut  the 
house  door,  for  she  knew  Paul  always  carried  a 
key  with  him.  She  stamped  about  loudly,  as 
though  he  could  hear  her  across  the  square, 
and  believe  her  firm  footsteps  to  be  an  outward 
sign  of  her  inward  assurance. 

She  felt,  however,  that  this  assurance  was 
not  so  very  firm  after  all.  But  then  what  is 
really  firm  in  this  life?  Neither  the  base  of 
the  mountains  nor  the  foundations  of  the 
churches,  for  an  earthquake  may  overthrow 
them  both.  Thus  she  felt  sure  of  Paul  for  the 
future,  and  sure  of  herself,  but  always  with 
an  underlying  dread  of  the  unknown  which 
might  chance  to  supervene.  And  when  she 
reached  her  bedroom  she  dropped  wearily  into 
a  chair,  wondering  whether  it  would  not  have 


THE    MOTHER  157 

been  better  after  all  to  leave  the  front  door 
open. 

Then  she  got  up  and  began  to  untie  her  apron 
string;  but  it  had  twisted  into  a  knot  over 
which  she  lost  patience  at  last,  and  went  to 
fetch  a  pair  of  scissors  from  her  work-basket. 
She  found  the  kitten  curled  up  asleep  inside 
the  basket,  and  the  scissofs  and  reels  were  all 
warm  from  contact  with  its  tiny  body;  and 
somehow  the  touch  of  the  living  thing  made 
her  repent  of  her  impatience,  and  she  went 
back  to  the  lamp,  and  drawing  the  knot  in  front 
of  her  she  succeeded  at  last  in  untying  it.  With 
a  sigh  of  relief  she  slowly  undressed,  carefully 
folding  her  garments  one  by  one  on  the  chair, 
first,  however,  taking  the  keys  out  of  her  apron 
pocket  and  laying  them  in  a  row  on  the  table 
like  a  respectable  family  all  asleep.  Thus  her 
masters  had  taught  her  in  her  youth  to  culti- 
vate order  and  tidiness,  and  she  still  obeyed 
the  old  instructions. 

She  sat  down  again,  half  undressed,  her  short 
chemise  displaying  thin  brown  legs  that  might 
have  been  made  of  wood,  and  she  yawned  with 
weariness  and  resignation.  No,  she  would  not 


158  THE    MOTHER 

go  downstairs  again;  her  son  should  come  home 
and  find  the  door  closed,  and  see  from  that 
fact  that  his  mother  had  full  confidence  in  him. 
That  was  the  right  way  to  manage  him,  show 
that  you  trusted  him  absolutely.  Nevertheless, 
she  was  on  the  alert,  and  listened  for  the  least 
sound;  not  in  the  same  way  as  on  the  previous 
night,  but  still  she  listened.  She  drew  off  her 
shoes  and  placed  them  side  by  side,  like  two 
sisters  who  must  keep  each  other  company  even 
during  the  night,  and  went  on  murmuring  her 
prayers  and  yawning,  yawning  with  weariness 
and  resignation,  and  with  sheer  nervousness, 
too. 

Whatever  could  Paul  have  to  say  to  Anti- 
ochus's  mother?  The  woman  had  by  no  means 
a  good  reputation,  she  lent  money  on  usury 
and  was  commonly  supposed  to  be  a  procuress 
too.  No,  Paul's  mother  could  not  understand 
it.  Then  she  blew  out  the  candle,  snuffed  the 
smoking  wick  with  her  fingers  and  got  into  bed, 
but  could  not  bring  herself  to  lie  down. 

Presently  she  thought  she  heard  a  step  in 
her  room.  Was  it  the  ghost  come  back?  She 
was  filled  with  a  horrible  fear  lest  he  should 


THE    MOTHER  159 

come  up  to  the  bed  and  take  hold  of  her;  for 
a  moment  her  blood  froze  in  her  veins,  then 
surged  to  her  heart  as  a  people  in  tumult 
rushes  through  the  streets  of  its  city  to  the 
principal  square.  Then  she  recovered  herself 
and  was  ashamed  of  her  fear,  only  caused,  she 
was  sure,  by  the  wicked  doubts  she  had  enter- 
tained of  her  Paul. 

No,  those  doubts  were  all  ended:  never 
again  would  she  inquire  into  the  very  smallest 
of  his  actions;  it  was  her  place  to  keep  quietly 
in  the  background,  as  she  was  now,  in  her  little 
room  fit  only  for  a  servant.  She  lay  down  and 
drew  the  bedclothes  over  her,  covering  her 
ears,  too,  so  that  she  might  not  hear  whether 
Paul  came  home  or  not;  but  in  her  inner  con- 
sciousness she  felt  all  the  same,  she  felt  that 
he  was  not  coming  home,  that  he  had  been 
carried  off  by  some  one  against  his  will,  as  one 
drawn  reluctantly  into  a  dance. 

Nevertheless  she  felt  quite  sure  of  him; 
sooner  or  later  he  would  manage  to  escape  and 
come  home.  Anyhow,  she  was  resting  quietly 
under  the  bedclothes,  though  not  yet  asleep,  and 
she  had  a  confused  impression  that  she  was  still 


160  THE    MOTHER 

trying  to  undo  the  knot  in  her  apron  string. 
Then  the  faint  buzzing  in  her  ears  beneath  the 
coverlet  turned  gradually  into  the  murmuring 
of  the  crowd  in  the  square  beneath  her  window, 
and  farther  off  still  the  murmuring  of  a  people 
who  lamented,  and  yet  whilst  lamenting  laughed 
and  danced  and  sang.  Her  Paul  was  there  in 
the  midst  of  them,  and  above  them  all  in  some 
high,  far  place,  a  lute  was  being  softly  played. 
Perhaps  it  was  God  Himself  playing  to  the 
dance  of  men, 


CHAPTER  X 

ALL  day  long  Antiochus's  mother  had  been 
speculating  as  to  what  could  be  the  ob- 
ject of  the  priest's  visit,  for  which  her  boy  had 
prepared  her,  but  she  took  good  care  not  to 
betray  by  her  manner  that  she  was  expecting 
him.  Perhaps  he  intended  making  a  few  re- 
marks on  the  subject  of  usury,  and  certain  other 
trades  which  she  practised;  or  because  she  was 
in  the  habit  of  lending  out — for  purely  medical 
purposes,  but  always  for  a  small  fee — certain 
very  ancient  relics  which  she  had  inherited  from 
her  husband's  family.  Or  perhaps  he  wanted 
to  borrow  money,  either  for  himself  or  some 
one  else.  Whatever  it  might  prove  to  be,  as 
soon  as  the  last  customer  had  departed  she 
went  to  the  door  and  stood  there  with  her 
hands  in  her  pockets,  heavy  with  copper  coins, 
looking  out  to  see  whether  Antiochus  at  least 
were  not  in  sight. 

Then  immediately  she  pretended  to  be  busied 

161 


162  THE    MOTHER 

with  shutting  the  door,  and  in  fact  she  did  shut 
the  lower  half,  bending  down  to  fasten  the 
bolt.  She  was  active  in  her  movements,  al- 
though tall  and  stout ;  but,  contrary  to  the  other 
women  of  the  place,  she  had  a  small  head, 
which  only  looked  large  because  of  the  great 
mass  of  black  plaits  that  encircled  it. 

As  the  priest  approached  she  drew  herself 
up  and  bade  him  good  evening  with  much  dig- 
nity, though  her  black  eyes  looked  straight  into 
his  with  an  ardent,  languorous  gaze.  Then 
she  invited  him  to  take  a  seat  in  the  room  be- 
hind the  wineshop,  and  Antiochus's  wistful 
eyes  begged  her  to  press  the  invitation.  But 
the  priest  said  good-humouredly : 

"  No,  let  us  stay  here,"  and  he  sat  down  at 
one  of  the  long,  wine-stained  tables  that  fur- 
nished the  little  tavern,  whilst  Antiochus, 
resigned  to  the  inevitable,  stood  beside  him, 
casting  anxious  glances  round,  however,  to  see 
if  everything  was  in  order  and  fearful  lest  any 
belated  customer  should  come  in  to  disturb  the 
conference. 

Nobody  came  and  everything  was  in  order. 
The  big  petroleum  lamp  threw  an  immense 


THE    MOTHER  163 

shadow  of  his  mother  on  the  wall  behind  the 
little  bar,  covered  with  shelves  filled  with 
bottles  of  red,  yellow  and  green  liqueurs,  the 
light  falling  crudely  on  the  small  black  casks 
ranged  along  the  opposite  side  of  the  shop. 
There  was  no  other  furniture  except  the  long 
table  at  which  sat  the  priest,  and  another 
smaller  one,  and  over  the  door  hung  a  bunch 
of  broom  which  served  the  double  purpose  of 
informing  passers-by  that  this  was  the  door  of 
a  wineshop  and  of  attracting  flies  away  from 
the  glasses. 

Antiochus  had  been  waiting  for  this  moment 
during  the  whole  of  the  day,  with  the  feeling 
that  some  mystery  would  then  be  revealed. 
He  was  afraid  of  some  intruder  coming  in,  or 
that  his  mother  would  not  behave  as  she  should. 
He  would  have  liked  her  to  be  more  humble, 
more  docile  in  the  presence  of  the  priest;  but 
instead  of  that  she  had  taken  her  seat  again 
behind  the  bar,  and  sat  there  as  composedly  as 
a  queen  on  her  throne.  She  did  not  even  ap- 
pear to  realize  that  the  man  seated  at  the 
tavern  table  like  an  ordinary  customer  was  a 
saint  who  worked  miracles,  and  she  was  not 


i64  THE    MOTHER 

even  grateful  for  the  large  quantity  of  wine 
which  he  had  been  the  indirect  means  of  her 
selling  that  day! 

At  last,  however,  Paul  opened  the  conver- 
sation. 

"  I  should  have  liked  to  see  your  husband  as 
well,"  he  began,  resting  his  elbows  on  the  table 
and  placing  his  finger-tips  together,  "  but 
Antiochus  tells  me  that  he  will  not  be  back 
until  Sunday  week." 

The  woman  merely  nodded  in  assent. 

"  Yes,  on  Sunday  week,  but  I  can  go  and 
fetch  him,  if  you  like,"  broke  in  Antiochus, 
with  an  eagerness  of  which  neither  of  the 
others  took  the  least  notice. 

"  It  is  about  the  boy,"  continued  Paul.  "  The 
time  has  come  when  you  must  really  consider 
in  earnest  what  you  are  going  to  do  with  him. 
He  is  growing  big  now  and  you  must  either 
teach  him  a  trade  or,  if  you  want  to  make  a 
priest  of  him,  you  must  think  very  seriously  of 
the  responsibility  you  are  undertaking." 

Antiochus  opened  his  lips,  but  as  his  mother 
began  to  speak  he  listened  to  her  silently, 


THE    MOTHER  165 

though  with  a  shade  of  disapproval  on  his 
anxious  young  face. 

The  woman  seized  the  occasion,  as  she  al- 
ways did,  to  sound  the  praises  of  her  husband, 
also  to  excuse  herself  for  having  married  a  man 
much  older  than  herself: 

"  My  Martin,  as  your  Reverence  knows,  is 
the  most  conscientious  man  in  the  world;  he  is 
a  good  husband  and  a  good  father  and  a  better 
workman  than  anyone  else.  Who  is  there  in 
the  whole  village  who  works  as  hard  as  he 
does  ?  Tell  me  that,  your  Reverence,  you  who 
know  what  sort  of  a  character  the  village  has 
got  through  the  idleness  of  its  inhabitants!  I 
say,  then,  that  if  Antiochus  wants  to  choose  a 
trade,  he  has  only  to  follow  his  father's;  that  is 
the  best  trade  for  him.  The  boy  is  free  to  do  as 
he  likes,  and  even  if  he  wants  to  do  nothing  (I 
don't  say  it  for  vanity),  he  will  be  able  to  live 
without  turning  thief,  thank  God!  But  if  he 
wants  a  trade  different  from  his  father's,  then 
he  must  choose  for  himself.  If  he  wants  to  be 
a  charcoal-burner,  let  him  be  a  charcoal-burner; 
if  he  wants  to  be  a  carpenter,  let  him  be  a  car- 


i66  THE    MOTHER 

penter;  if  he  wants  to  be  a  labourer,  let  him  be 
a  labourer." 

"  I  want  to  be  a  priest !  "  said  the  boy  with 
quivering  lips  and  eager  eyes. 

"  Very  well  then,  be  a  priest,"  replied  his 
mother. 

And  thus  his  fate  was  decided. 

Paul  let  his  hands  fall  upon  the  table  and 
gazed  slowly  round  him.  Quite  suddenly  he 
felt  it  was  ridiculous  that  he  should  thus  in- 
terest himself  in  other  people's  business.  How 
could  he  possibly  solve  the  problem  of  the  fu- 
ture for  Antiochus  when  he  could  not  succeed 
in  solving  it  for  himself  ?  The  boy  stood  before 
him  in  ardent  expectation,  like  a  piece  of  red- 
hot  iron  awaiting  the  stroke  of  the  hammer  to 
mould  it  into  shape,  and  every  word  had  the 
power  to  either  make  or  mar  him.  Paul's 
gaze  rested  on  him  with  something  akin  to 
envy,  and  in  the  depths  of  his  conscience  he 
applauded  the  mother's  action  in  leaving  her 
son  free  to  follow  his  own  instincts. 

"Instinct  never  leads  us  wrong,"  he  said 
aloud,  following  his  own  train  of  thought. 
"  But  now,  Antiochus,  tell  me  in  your  mother's 


THE    MOTHER  167 

presence  the  reason  why  you  wish  to  be  a 
priest.  Being  a  priest  is  not  a  trade,  you  know; 
it  is  not  like  being  a  charcoal-burner  or  a 
carpenter.  You  think  now  that  it  is  a  very  easy, 
comfortable  kind  of  life,  but  later  on  you  will 
find  that  it  is  very  difficult.  The  joys  and 
pleasures  allowed  to  all  other  men  are  forbid- 
den to  us,  and  if  we  truly  desire  to  serve  the 
Lord  our  life  is  one  continuous  sacrifice." 

"  I  know  that,"  replied  the  boy  very  simply. 
"  I  desire  to  serve  the  Lord." 

He  looked  at  his  mother  then,  because  he 
was  a  little  ashamed  of  betraying  all  his  en- 
thusiasm before  her,  but  she  sat  behind  the 
bar  as  calmly  and  coldly  as  when  she  was 
merely  serving  customers.  So  Antiochus  went 
on: 

"  Both  my  father  and  mother  are  willing  for 
me  to  become  a  priest;  why  should  they  ob- 
ject? I  am  very  careless  sometimes,  but  that 
is  because  I  am  still  only  a  boy,  and  in  future 
I  mean  to  be  much  more  serious  and  attentive." 

"That  is  not  the  question,  Antiochus;  you 
are  too  serious  and  attentive  already!"  said 
Paul.  "At  your  age  you  should  be  heedless 


i68  THE    MOTHER 

and  merry.  Learn  and  prepare  yourself  for 
life,  certainly,  but  be  a  boy  too." 

"And  am  I  not  a  boy?"  protested  Antio- 
chus;  "I  do  play,  only  you  don't  happen  to  see 
me  just  when  I  am  playing!  Besides,  why 
should  I  play  if  I  don't  feel  inclined?  I  have 
lots  of  amusements:  I  enjoy  ringing  the  church 
bells  and  I  feel  as  if  I  was  a  bird  up  in  the 
tower.  And  haven't  I  had  an  amusing  time 
to-day?  I  enjoyed  carrying  the  box  and  climb- 
ing up  ever  so  high  amongst  the  rocks,  and  I 
got  there  before  you,  although  you  were 
riding!  I  enjoyed  coming  home  again  .  .  . 
and  to-day  I  enjoyed  ...  I  was  happy,"  and 
the  boy's  eyes  sought  the  ground  as  he  added, 
"when  you  drove  the  devils  out  of  the  body 
of  Nina  Masia." 

"You  believed  in  that?"  asked  the  priest  in 
a  low  voice,  and  immediately  he  saw  the  boy's 
eyes  look  upward,  so  glorious  with  the  light  of 
faith  and  wonder  that  instinctively  he  lowered 
his  own  to  hide  the  dark  shadow  that  rested  on 
his  soul. 

"Only,  when  we  are  children  we  think  in  one 
way  and  everything  looks  great  and  beautiful 


THE    MOTHER  169 

to  us,"  continued  Paul,  much  disturbed,  "but 
when  we  are  grown  up  things  look  different. 
One  must  reflect  very  carefully  before  under- 
taking anything  important  so  that  one  may 
not  come  to  repent  afterwards." 

"I  shall  not  repent,  I'm  sure,"  said  the  boy 
with  decision.  "Have  you  repented?  No,  and 
neither  shall  I  repent." 

Paul  lifted  up  his  eyes :  again  he  felt  that  he 
held  in  his  hands  the  soul  of  this  child,  to 
mould  it  like  wax,  and  that  a  few  careless 
touches  might  deform  it  for  ever.  And  again 
he  feared  and  was  silent. 

All  this  time  the  woman  behind  the  bar  had 
listened  quietly,  but  now  the  priest's  words 
began  to  cause  her  a  certain  uneasiness.  She 
opened  a  drawer  in  front  of  her,  wherein  she 
kept  her  money,  and  the  cornelian  rings  and 
the  brooches  and  mother-of-pearl  ornaments 
pledged  by  the  village  women  in  return  for 
small  loans;  and  evil  thoughts  flashed  through 
the  darkest  recesses  of  her  mind,  like  those 
forlorn  trinkets  at  the  bottom  of  her  drawer. 

"The  priest  is  afraid  that  Antiochus  will 
turn  him  put  of  his  parish  some  time  or  other," 


iyo  THE    MOTHER 

she  was  thinking,  "or  else  he  is  in  need  of 
money  and  is  working  off  his  bad  temper  first. 
Now  he'll  be  asking  for  a  loan." 

She  closed  the  drawer  softly  and  resumed 
her  tranquil  demeanour.  She  always  sat  there 
in  silence  and  never  took  part  in  the  discussions 
between  her  customers,  even  though  invited 
to  give  her  opinion,  especially  if  they  were 
playing  cards.  Thus  she  left  her  little  Antio- 
chus  to  face  his  adversary  by  himself. 

"How  is  it  possible  not  to  believe?"  said 
the  boy,  between  awe  and  excitement.  "Nina 
Masia  was  possessed,  wasn't  she?  Why,  I 
myself  felt  the  devil  inside  her  shaking  her  like 
a  wolf  in  a  cage.  And  it  was  nothing  but  the 
words  of  the  Gospel  spoken  by  you  that  set 
her  free!" 

"That  is  true,  the  Word  of  God  can  achieve 
all  things,"  admitted  the  priest.  Then  sud- 
denly he  rose  from  his  seat. 

Was  he  going?  Antiochus  gazed  at  him  in 
consternation. 

"Are  you  going?"  he  murmured. 

Was  this  the  famous  visit?  He  ran  to  the 
bar  and  made  a  desperate  sign  to  his  mother, 


THE    MOTHER  171 

who  turned  round  and  took  down  a  bottle 
from  the  shelves.  She  was  disappointed  too, 
for  she  had  hoped  for  a  chance  of  lending 
money  to  the  parish  priest,  even  at  a  very  low 
interest,  thereby  in  some  way  legitimizing  her 
usury  in  the  sight  of  God.  But  instead  of  that, 
he  had  simply  come  to  inform  Antiochus  that 
being  a  priest  was  not  the  same  thing  as  being 
a  carpenter!  However,  she  must  do  him 
honour,  in  any  case. 

"But  your  Reverence  is  not  going  away  like 
that!  Accept  something  to  drink,  at  least; 
this  wine  is  very  old." 

Antiochus  was  already  holding  the  tray  with 
a  glass  goblet  upon  it. 

"Then  only  a  little,"  said  Paul. 

Leaning  across  the  bar,  the  woman  poured 
out  the  wine,  careful  not  to  spill  a  drop.  Paul 
raised  his  glass,  within  which  the  ruby  liquid 
exhaled  a  perfume  like  a  dusky  rose,  and  after 
first  making  Antiochus  taste  it,  he  put  it  to  his 
own  lips. 

"Then  let  us  drink  to  the  future  parish  priest 
of  Aar!"  he  said. 

Antiochus  was  obliged  to  lean  against  the 


172  THE    MOTHER 

bar,  for  his  knees  gave  way  under  him;  that 
was  the  happiest  moment  of  his  life.  The 
woman  had  turned  round  to  replace  the  preci- 
ous bottle  on  the  shelf,  and,  absorbed  in  his 
joy,  the  lad  did  not  notice  that  the  priest  had 
gone  deathly  pale  and  was  staring  out  of  the 
doorway  as  though  he  beheld  a  ghost. 

A  dark  figure  was  running  silently  across  the 
square,  came  to  the  wineshop  door,  looked 
round  the  interior  with  wide-open  black  eyes, 
and  then  entered,  panting. 

It  was  one  of  Agnes's  servants. 

The  priest  instinctively  withdrew  to  the  far 
end  of  the  tavern,  trying  to  hide  himself,  then 
came  forward  again  on  a  sudden  impulse.  He 
felt  as  if  he  were  revolving  round  and  round 
like  a  top,  then  pulled  himself  together  and 

9 

remembered  that  he  was  not  alone  and  must  be 
careful  not  to  excite  remark.  So  he  stood  still. 
But  he  had  no  desire  to  hear  what  the  servant 
was  telling  the  woman,  listening  eagerly  be- 
hind the  bar,  his  only  desire  was  flight  and 
safety;  his  heart  had  stopped  beating,  and  all 
the  blood  in  his  body  had  rushed  to  his  head 
and  was  roaring  in  his  ears.  Nevertheless  the 


THE    MOTHER  173 

servant's  words  penetrated  to  the  utmost 
depths  of  his  soul. 

"She  fell  down,"  said  the  girl  breathlessly, 
"and  the  blood  poured  from  her  nose  in  a 
stream,  such  a  stream  that  we  thought  she  had 
broken  something  inside  her  head!  And  she's 
bleeding  still!  Give  me  the  keys  of  St.  Mary 
of  Egypt,  for  that  is  the  only  thing  that  can 
stop  it." 

Antiochus,  who  stood  listening  with  the  tray 
and  glass  still  in  his  hands,  ran  to  fetch  the  keys 
of  an  old  church,  now  demolished,  which  keys 
when  actually  laid  on  the  shoulders  of  anyone 
suffering  from  haemorrhage  of  the  nose  did  to 
some  extent  arrest  the  flow  of  blood. 

"All  this  is  just  pretence,"  thought  Paul, 
"there  tis  no  truth  whatever  in  the  tale.  She 
sent  her  servant  to  spy  on  me  and  endeavour 
to  lure  me  to  her  house,  and  they  are  probably 
in  league  with  this  worthless  woman  here." 

And  yet  deep,  deep  within  him  the  agitation 
grew  till  all  his  being  was  in  a  tumult.  Ah,  no, 
the  servant  was  not  lying;  Agnes  was  too  proud 
to  confide  in  anyone,  and  least  of  all  in  her 
servants.  Agnes  was  really  ill,  and  with  his 


174  THE    MOTHER 

inward  eye  he  saw  her  sweet  face  all  stained 
with  blood.  And  it  was  he  himself  who  had 
struck  her  the  blow.  "We  thought  she  had 
broken  something  inside  her  head." 

He  saw  the  shifty  eyes  of  the  woman  behind 
the  bar  glance  swiftly  in  his  direction,  with 
obvious  surprise  at  his  apparent  indifference. 

"But  how  did  it  happen?"  he  then  asked  the 
servant,  but  coolly  and  calmly,  as  though  seek- 
ing to  conceal  his  anxiety  even  from  himself. 

The  girl  turned  and  confronted  him,  her 
dark,  hard,  pointed  face  thrust  out  towards 
him  like  a  rock  against  which  he  feared  to 
strike. 

"I  was  not  at  home  when  she  fell.  It  hap- 
pened this  morning  whilst  I  was  at  the  fountain, 
and  when  I  got  back  I  found  her  very  ill.  She 
had  fallen  over  the  doorstep  and  blood  was 
flowing  from  her  nose,  but  I  think  she  was  more 
frightened  than  hurt.  Then  the  blood  stopped, 
but  she  was  very  pale  all  day  and  refused  to 
eat.  Then  this  evening  her  nose  began  to  bleed 
again,  and  not  only  that,  but  she  had  a  sort  of 
convulsion,  and  when  I  left  her  just  now  she 
was  lying  cold  and  stiff,  with  blood  still  flowing. 


THE    MOTHER  175 

I  am  very  nervous,"  added  the  girl,  taking  the 
keys  which  Antiochus  handed  to  her  and  wrap- 
ping them  in  her  apron,  "and  we  are  only 
women  in  the  house." 

She  moved  towards  the  door,  but  kept  her 
black  eyes  on  Paul  as  though  seeking  to  draw 
him  after  her  by  the  sheer  power  of  her  gaze, 
and  the  woman  seated  behind  the  bar  said  in 
her  cold  voice: 

"Why  does  not  your  Reverence  go  and  see 
her?" 

He  wrung  his  hands  unconsciously  and 
stammered:  "I  hardly  know  ...  it  is  too 
late.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  come,  come!"  urged  the  servant. 
"My  little  mistress  will  be  very  glad,  and  it  will 
give  her  courage  to  see  you." 

"It  is  the  devil  speaking  by  your  mouth," 
thought  Paul,  but  unconsciously  he  followed 
the  girl.  He  had  gripped  Antiochus  by  the 
shoulder  and  was  drawing  him  along  as  a 
support,  and  the  boy  went  with  him  like  a  plank 
of  safety  upon  the  waves.  So  they  crossed  the 
square  and  went  as  far  as  the  presbytery,  the 
servant  running  on  ahead,  but  turning  every 


176  THE    MOTHER 

few  steps  to  look  back  at  them,  the  whites  of 
her  eyes  gleaming  in  the  moonlight.  Seen  thus 
at  night,  the  black  figure  with  the  dark  and 
mask-like  face  had  truly  something  diabolical 
about  it,  and  Paul  followed  it  with  a  vague 
sense  of  fear,  leaning  on  Antiochus's  shoulder 
as  he  walked  and  feeling  like  Tobit  in  his 
blindness. 

On  passing  the  presbytery  door  the  boy  tried 
to  open  it,  and  then  Paul  perceived  that  his 
mother  had  locked  it.  He  stopped  short  and 
disengaged  himself  from  his  companion. 

"My  mother  has  locked  up  because  she  knew 
in  advance  that  I  should  not  keep  my  word," 
he  thought  to  himself;  then  said  to  the 
boy:  "Antiochus,  you  must  go  home  at 
once." 

The  servant  had  stopped  also,  then  went  on 
a  few  steps,  then  stopped  again  and  saw  the 
boy  returning  towards  his  own  home  and  the 
priest  inserting  his  key  in  his  door;  then  she 
went  back  to  him. 

"I  am  not  coming,"  he  said,  turning  almost 
threateningly  to  confront  her,  and  looking  her 
straight  in  the  face  as  though  trying  to  recog- 


THE    MOTHER  177 

nize  her  true  nature  through  her  outward  mask; 
"if  you  should  absolutely  need  me,  you  under- 
stand— only  if  you  do  absolutely  need  me — 
you  can  come  back  and  fetch  me." 

She  went  away  without  another  word,  and 
he  stood  there  before  his  own  door,  with  his 
hand  on  the  key  as  though  it  had  refused  to 
turn  in  the  lock.  He  could  not  bring  himself  to 
enter,  it  was  beyond  his  power;  neither  could 
he  go  forward  in  that  other  path  he  had  begun 
to  tread.  He  felt  as  if  he  were  doomed  to 
stand  there  for  all  eternity,  before  a  closed 
door  of  which  he  held  the  key. 


Meanwhile  Antiochus  had  reached  home. 
His  mother  locked  the  door  and  he  went  to 
wash  up  the  glasses  and  put  them  away;  and 
the  first  glass  he  washed  in  the  clean  water  was 
the  one  from  which  he  had  drunk.  The  boy 
dried  it  very  carefully  with  a  white  cloth,  which 
he  passed  round  and  round  inside  with  his 
thumb;  then  he  held  it  up  to  the  flame  of  the 
lamp  and  examined  it  with  one  eye,  keeping 
the  other  screwed  up,  which  had  the  effect  of 


178  THE    MOTHER 

making  the  glass  shine  like  a  big  diamond. 
Then  he  hid  it  away  in  a  secret  cupboard  of 
his  own  with  as  much  reverence  as  if  it  had 
been  the  chalice  of  the  Mass. 


CHAPTER  XI 

T)AUL  had  gone  home  too,  and  was  feeling 
A  his  way  upstairs  in  the  dark:  he  dimly 
remembered  going  up  some  stairs  in  the  dark 
like  this  when  he  was  a  boy,  but  he  could  not 
remember  where  it  had  been.  Now,  as  then, 
he  had  the  feeling  that  there  was  some  danger 
near  him  which  he  could  only  escape  by  strict 
attention  to  what  he  was  doing.  He  reached 
the  landing,  he  stood  before  his  own  door,  he 
was  safe.  But  he  hesitated  an  instant  before 
opening  it,  then  crossed  over  and  tapped  lightly 
with  the  knuckle  of  his  forefinger  at  his 
mother's  door  and  entered  without  waiting  for 
a  reply. 

"It  is  I,"  he  said  brusquely;  "don't  light  the 
candle,  I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

He  heard  her  turning  round  in  her  bed,  the 
straw  mattress  creaking  under  her:  but  he 
could  not  see  her,  he  did  not  want  to  see  her; 

their  two   souls  must  speak   together  in  the 
179 


180  THE    MOTHER 

darkness  as  though  they  had  already  passed  to 
the  world  beyond. 

"Is  it  you,  Paul?  I  was  dreaming,"  she 
said  in  a  sleepy  yet  frightened  voice ;  "I  thought 
I  heard  dancing,  some  one  playing  on  the  flute." 

"Mother,  listen,"  he  said,  paying  no  atten- 
tion to  her  words.  "That  woman,  Agnes,  is 
ill.  She  has  been  ill  since  this  morning.  She 
had  a  fall;  it  seems  she  hurt  her  head  and  is 
bleeding  from  her  nose." 

"You  don't  mean  it,  Paul?  Is  she  in 
danger?" 

In  the  darkness  her  voice  sounded  alarmed, 
yet  at  the  same  time  incredulous.  He  went  on, 
repeating  the  breathless  words  of  the  servant: 

"It  happened  this  morning,  after  she  got 
the  letter.  All  day  long  she  was  pale  and 
refused  to  eat,  and  this  evening  she  grew  worse 
and  fell  into  convulsions." 

He  knew  that  he  was  exaggerating,  and 
stopped:  his  mother  did  not  speak.  For  a 
moment  in  the  silence  and  the  night  there  was 
a  deathlike  tension,  as  though  two  enemies 
were  seeking  each  other  in  the  darkness  and 
seeking  in  vain.  Then  the  straw  mattress 


THE    MOTHER  181 

creaked  again;  his  mother  must  have  raised 
herself  to  a  sitting  position  in  the  high  bed, 
because  her  clear  voice  now  seemed  to  come 
from  above. 

"Paul,  who  told  you  all  this?  Perhaps  it 
is  not  true." 

Again  he  felt  that  it  was  his  conscience 
speaking  to  him  through  her,  but  he  answered 
at  once: 

"It  may  be  true.  But  that  is  not  the  ques- 
tion, mother.  It  is  that  I  fear  she  may  commit 
some  folly.  She  is  alone  in  the  hands  of 
servants,  and  I  must  see  her." 

"Paul!" 

"I  must,"  he  repeated,  raising  his  voice 
almost  to  a  shout;  but  it  was  himself  he  was 
trying  to  convince,  not  his  mother. 

"Paul,  you  promised!" 

"I  know  I  promised,  and  for  that  very 
reason  I  have  come  to  tell  you  before  I  go. 
I  tell  you  that  it  is  necessary  that  I  should  go 
to  her;  my  conscience  bids  me  go." 

"Tell  me  one  thing,  Paul :  are  you  sure  you 
saw  the  servant?  Temptation  plays  evil  tricks 
on  us  and  the  devil  has  many  disguises." 


182  THE    MOTHER 

He  did  not  quite  understand  her. 

"You  think  I  am  telling  a  lie?  I  saw  the 
servant." 

"  Listen — last  night  I  saw  the  old  priest, 
and  I  thought  I  heard  his  footsteps  again  just 
now.  Last  night,"  she  went  on  in  a  low  voice, 
"  he  sat  beside  me  before  the  fire.  I  actually 
saw  him,  I  tell  you:  he  had  not  shaved,  and 
the  few  teeth  he  had  left  were  black  from  too 
much  smoking.  And  he  had  holes  in  his  stock- 
ings. And  he  said,  'I  am  alive  and  I  am  here, 
and  very  soon  I  shall  turn  you  and  your  son 
out  of  the  presbytery.'  And  he  said  I  ought  to 
have  taught  you  your  father's  trade  if  I  did  not 
wish  you  to  fall  into  sin.  He  so  upset  my  mind, 
Paul,  that  I  don't  know  whether  I  have  acted 
rightly  or  wrongly!  But  I  am  absolutely  sure 
that  it  was  the  devil  sitting  beside  me  last  night, 
the  spirit  of  evil.  The  servant  you  saw  might 
have  been  temptation  in  another  shape." 

He  smiled  in  the  darkness.  Nevertheless, 
when  he  thought  of  the  fantastic  figure  of  the 
servant  running  across  the  meadow,  he  felt  a 
vague  sense  of  terror  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  If  you  go  there,"  continued  his  mother's 


THE    MOTHER  183 

voice,  "  are  you  certain  you  will  not  fall  again? 
Even  if  you  really  saw  the  servant  and  if  that 
woman  is  really  ill,  are  you  sure  not  to  fall?  " 

She  broke  off  suddenly;  she  seemed  to  see 
his  pale  face  through  the  darkness,  and  she  was 
filled  with  pity  for  him.  Why  should  she  for- 
bid him  to  go  to  the  woman?  Supposing 
Agnes  really  died  of  grief?  Supposing  Paul 
died  of  grief?  And  she  was  as  wracked  with 
uncertainty  as  he  had  been  in  the  case  of 
Antiochus. 

"Lord,"  she  sighed;  then  she  remembered 
that  she  had  already  placed  herself  in  the  hands 
of  God,  Who  alone  can  solve  all  our  difficulties. 
She  felt  a  sort  of  relief,  as  if  she  had  really 
settled  the  problem.  And  had  she  not  settled 
it  by  entrusting  it  in  the  hands  of  God? 

She  lay  back  on  her  pillow  and  her  voice 
came  again  nearer  to  her  son. 

"  If  your  conscience  bids  you  go,  why  did 
you  not  go  at  once  instead  of  coming  in  here  ?  " 

"  Because  I  promised.  And  you  threatened 
to  leave  me  if  I  went  back  to  that  house.  I 
swore  .  .  ."  he  said  with  infinite  sadness.  And 
he  longed  to  cry  out,  "  Mother,  force  me  to 


1 84  THE    MOTHER 

keep  my  oath !  "  but  the  words  would  not 
come.  And  then  she  spoke  again: 

"Then  go:  do  whatever  your  conscience 
bids  you." 

"  Do  not  be  anxious,"  he  said,  coming  close 
up  to  the  bed;  and  he  stood  there  motionless 
for  a  few  minutes  and  both  were  silent.  He 
had  a  confused  impression  that  he  was  standing 
before  an  altar  with  his  mother  lying  upon  it 
like  some  mysterious  idol,  and  he  remembered 
how,  when  he  was  a  boy  in  the  Seminary,  he 
was  always  obliged  to  go  and  kiss  her  hand 
after  he  had  been  to  confession.  And  some- 
thing of  the  same  repugnance  and  the  same 
exaltation  moved  him  now.  He  felt  that  if  he 
had  been  alone,  without  her,  he  would  have 
gone  back  to  Agnes  long  since,  worn  out  by 
that  endless  day  of  flight  and  strife;  but  his 
mother  held  him  in  check,  and  he  did  not  know 
whether  he  was  grateful  to  her  or  not. 

"  Do  not  be  anxious!  "  Yet  all  the  time  he 
longed  and  feared  that  she  would  say  more  to 
him,  or  that  she  would  light  the  lamp  and, 
looking  into  his  eyes,  read  all  his  thoughts  and 
forbid  him  to  go.  But  she  said  nothing.  Then 


THE    MOTHER  185 

the  mattress  creaked  again  as  she  stretched 
herself  in  the  bed. 
And  he  went  out. 

He  reflected  that  after  all  he  was  not  a 
scoundrel:  he  was  not  going  with  any  bad 
motive  or  moved  by  passion,  but  because  he 
honestly  thought  that  there  might  be  some 
danger  he  could  avert,  and  the  responsibility 
for  this  danger  rested  upon  him.  He  recalled 
the  fantastic  figure  of  the  servant  running 
across  the  moonlit  grass,  and  turning  back  to 
look  at  him  with  bright  eyes  as  she  said: 

"  My  little  mistress  will  take  courage  if  only 
you  will  come." 

And  all  his  efforts  to  break  away  from  her 
appeared  now  base  and  stupid:  his  duty  was 
to  have  gone  to  her  at  once  and  given  her 
courage.  And  as  he  crossed  the  meadow,  sil- 
very in  the  moonlight,  he  felt  relieved,  almost 
happy,  he  was  like  a  moth  attracted  by  the 
light.  And  he  mistook  the  joy  he  felt  at  the 
prospect  of  seeing  Agnes  again  in  a  few  mo- 
ments for  the  satisfaction  of  doing  his  duty  in 
going  to  save  her.  All  the  sweet  scent  of  the 
grass,  all  the  tender  radiance  of  the  moon 


186  THE    MOTHER 

bathed  and  purified  his  soul,  and  the  healing 
dew  fell  upon  it  even  through  his  clothes  of 
death-like  black. 

Agnes,  little  mistress !  In  truth,  she  was 
little,  weak  as  a  child,  and  she  was  all  alone, 
without  father  or  mother,  living  in  that  laby- 
rinth of  stone,  her  dark  house  under  the  ridge. 
And  he  had  taken  advantage  of  her,  had 
caught  her  in  his  hand  like  a  bird  from  the 
nest,  gripping  her  till  the  blood  seemed  driven 
from  her  body. 

He  hurried  on.  No,  he  was  not  a  bad  man, 
but  as  he  reached  the  bottom  of  the  steps  that 
led  up  to  the  door  he  stumbled,  and  it  was 
sharply  borne  in  upon  him  that  even  the  stones 
of  her  threshold  repulsed  him.  Then  he 
mounted  softly,  hesitatingly,  raised  the  knocker 
and  let  it  fall.  They  were  a  long  time  coming 
to  answer  the  door,  and  he  felt  humiliated 
standing  there,  but  for  nothing  in  the  world 
would  he  have  knocked  a  second  time.  At 
last  the  fanlight  over  the  door  was  lit  up  and 
the  dark-faced  maid  let  him  in,  showing  him 
at  once  into  the  room  he  knew  so  well. 

Everything  was  just  as  it  had  been  on  other 


THE    MOTHER  187 

nights,  when  Agnes  had  admitted  him  secretly 
by  way  of  the  orchard;  the  little  door  stood 
ajar,  and  through  the  narrow  opening  he  could 
smell  the  fragrance  of  the  bushes  in  the  night 
air.     The  glass  eyes  in  the  stuffed  heads  of 
stags  and  deer  on  the  walls  shone  in  the  steady 
glow  of  the  big  lamp,  as  though  taking  careful 
note  of  all  that  happened  in  the  room.     Con- 
trary to  custom,  the  door  leading  to  the  inner 
rooms  stood  wide  open;  the  servant  had  gone 
through  there  and  the  board  flooring  could  be 
heard  creaking  under  her  heavy  step.    After  a 
moment  a   door  banged  violently   as   though 
blown  by  a  gust  of  wind,  making  the  whole 
house  shake,  and  he  started  involuntarily  when 
immediately     afterwards     he     beheld     Agnes 
emerge  from  the  darkness  of  the  inner  rooms, 
with  white  face  and  distorted  hair  floating  in 
black  wisps  across  it,  like  the  phantom  of  a 
drowned  woman.     Then  the  little  figure  came 
forward   into   the   lamplight    and   he    almost 
sobbed  with  relief. 

She  closed  the  door  behind  her  and  leaned 
against  it  with  bowed  head.  She  faltered  as 
though  about  to  fall,  and  Paul  ran  to  her, 


i88  THE    MOTHER 

holding  out  his  hands,  but  not  daring  to  touch 
her. 

"  How  are  you?  "  he  asked  in  a  low  voice,  as 
he  had  asked  at  former  meetings.  But  she  did 
not  answer,  only  stood  trembling  all  over  her 
body,  her  hands  pressed  against  the  door  behind 
her  for  support.  "  Agnes,"  he  continued  after 
a  moment's  tense  silence,  "  we  must  be  brave." 

But  as  on  that  day  when  he  had  read  the 
Gospel  words  over  the  frenzied  girl,  he  knew 
that  his  voice  rang  false,  and  his  eyes  sought 
the  ground  as  Agnes  raised  hers,  bewildered, 
yes,  but  full  of  mingled  scorn  and  joy. 

"Then  why  have  you  come?" 

"  I  heard  that  you  were  ill." 

She  drew  herself  up  proudly  and  pushed 
back  the  hair  from  her  face. 

"  I  am  quite  well  and  I  did  not  send  for 
you." 

"  I  know  that,  but  I  came  all  the  same — 
there  was  no  reason  why  I  should  not  come. 
I  am  glad  to  find  that  your  maid  exaggerated, 
and  that  you  are  all  right." 

"  No,"  she  repeated,  interrupting  him,  "  I 
did  not  send  for  you  and  you  ought  not  to 


THE    MOTHER  189 

have  come.  But  since  you  are  here,  since  you 
are  here,  I  want  to  ask  you — why  you  did  it 
.  .  .  why? — why?  " 

Her  words  were  broken  by  sobs  and  her 
hands  sought  blindly  for  support,  so  that  Paul 
was  afraid,  and  repented  that  he  had  come.  He 
took  her  hands  and  led  her  to  the  couch  where 
they  had  sat  together  on  other  evenings,  placing 
her  in  the  corner  where  the  weight  of  other 
women  of  the  family  had  worn  a  sort  of  niche, 
and  seated  himself  beside  her,  but  he  let  go 
her  hands. 

He  was  afraid  of  touching  her;  she  was  like 
a  statue  which  he  had  broken  and  put  together 
again,  and  which  sat  there  apparently  whole 
but  ready  to  fall  in  pieces  again  at  the  slightest 
movement.  So  he  was  afraid  of  touching  her, 
and  he  thought  to  himself: 

"  It  is  better  so,  I  shall  be  safe,"  but  in  his 
heart  he  knew  that  at  any  moment  he  might  be 
lost  again,  and  for  that  reason  he  was  afraid  of 
touching  her.  Looking  closely  at  her  beneath 
the  lamplight,  he  perceived  that  she  was 
changed.  Her  mouth  was  half-open,  her  lips 
discoloured  and  greyish  like  faded  rose-leaves; 


i9o  THE    MOTHER 

the  oval  of  her  face  seemed  to  have  grown 
longer  and  her  cheekbones  stood  out  sharply 
beneath  eyes  sunk  deep  in  their  livid  sockets. 
Grief  had  aged  her  by  twenty  years  in  a  single 
day,  yet  there  was  something  childlike  still  in 
the  expression  of  her  trembling  lips,  drawn 
tightly  over  her  teeth  to  check  her  weeping,  and 
in  the  little  hands,  one  of  which,  lying  nerve- 
less on  the  dark  stuff  of  the  couch,  invited  his 
own  towards  it.  And  he  was  filled  with  anger 
because  he  dared  not  take  that  little  hand 
in  his  and  link  up  again  the  broken  chain  of 
their  two  lives.  He  remembered  the  words  of 
the  man  possessed  with  a  devil,  "  What  have  I 
to  do  with  Thee?"  and  he  began  to  speak 
again,  clasping  his  hands  together  to  prevent 
himself  taking  one  of  hers.  But  still  he  heard 
his  voice  ring  false,  and  as  on  that  morning  in 
church  when  he  read  the  Gospel,  and  when  he 
carried  the  sacrament  to  the  old  hunter,  he 
knew  himself  to  be  lying. 

"  Agnes,  listen  to  me.  Last  night  we  were 
both  on  the  brink  of  destruction — God  had 
left  us  to  ourselves  and  we  were  slipping  over 
the  edge  of  the  abyss.  But  now  God  has  taken 


THE    MOTHER  191 

us  by  the  hand  again  and  is  guiding  us.  We 
must  not  fall,  Agnes,  Agnes,"  and  his  voice 
shook  with  emotion  as  he  spoke  her  name. 
"You  think  I  don't  suffer?  I  feel  as  if  I  were 
buried  alive  and  that  my  torments  would  last 
through  all  eternity.  But  we  must  endure  for 
your  good,  for  your  salvation.  Listen,  Agnes, 
be  brave,  for  the  sake  of  the  love  which  united 
us,  for  God's  goodwill  toward  us  in  putting 
us  through  this  trial.  You  will  forget  me. 
You  will  recover;  you  are  young,  with  all  your 
life  still  before  you.  When  you  think  of  me 
it  will  be  like  a  bad  dream,  as  though  you  had 
lost  your  way  in  the  valley  and  met  some  evil 
creature  who  had  tried  to  do  you  harm;  but 
God  has  saved  you,  as  you  deserved  to  be  saved. 
Everything  looks  black  at  present,  but  it  will 
clear  up  soon  and  you  will  realize  that  I  am 
only  acting  for  your  good  in  causing  you  a 
little  momentary  pain  now,  just  as  we  are  some- 
times obliged  to  seem  cruel  to  those  who  are 
ill.  .  .  ." 

He  stopped,  the  words  froze  in  his  throat. 

Agnes  had  roused  herself  and  was  sitting 
upright  in  her  corner,  gazing  at  him  with  eyes 


i92  THE    MOTHER 

as  glassy  as  those  in  the  stags'  heads  on  the 
walls.  They  reminded  him  of  the  women's 
eyes  in  church,  fixed  on  him  as  he  preached. 
She  waited  for  his  words,  patient  and  gentle 
in  every  line  of  her  fragile  form,  yet  ready  to 
break  down  at  a  touch.  Then  speechless  him- 
self, he  heard  her  low  voice  as  she  shook  her 
head  slowly. 

"  No,  no,  that  is  not  the  truth,"  she  said. 

"  Then  what  is  the  truth?  "  he  asked,  bend- 
ing his  troubled  face  towards  her. 

"  Why  did  you  not  speak  like  that  last  night? 
And  the  other  nights?  Because  it  was  a  dif- 
ferent kind  of  truth  then.  Now  somebody  has 
found  you  out,  perhaps  your  mother  herself, 
and  you  are  afraid  of  the  world.  It  is  not 
the  fear  of  God  which  is  driving  you  away  from 
me!" 

He  wanted  to  cry  out,  to  strike  her;  he 
seized  her  hand  and  twisted  the  slender  wrist 
as  he  would  have  liked  to  twist  and  stifle  the 
words  she  spoke.  Then  he  drew  himself  up 
stiffly. 

"What  then?  You  think  it  does  not  mat- 
ter? Yes,  my  mother  has  discovered  every- 


THE    MOTHER  193 

thing  and  she  talked  to  me  like  my  conscience 
itself.  And  have  you  no  conscience?  Do  you 
think  it  right  that  we  should  injure  those  who 
depend  on  us  ?  You  wanted  us  to  go  away  and 
live  together,  and  that  would  have  been  the 
right  thing  to  do  if  we  had  not  been  able  to 
overcome  our  love;  but  since  there  are  beings 
who  would  have  been  cut  off  from  life  by  our 
flight  and  our  sin,  we  had  to  sacrifice  ourselves 
for  them." 

But  she  seemed  not  to  understand,  caught 
only  one  word,  and  shook  her  head  as  before. 
"Conscience?  Of  course  I  have  a  con- 
science, I  am  no  longer  a  child!  And  my 
conscience  tells  me  that  I  did  wrong  in  listen- 
ing to  you  and  letting  you  come  here.  What 
is  to  be  done?  It  is  too  late  now;  why  did 
not  God  make  you  see  things  clearly  at  first? 
I  did  not  go  to  your  home,  but  you  came  to 
mine  and  played  with  me  as  if  I  had  been  a 
child's  toy.  And  what  must  I  do  now?  Tell 
me  that.  I  cannot  forget  you,  I  cannot  change 
as  you  change.  I  shall  go  away,  even  if  you 
will  not  come  with  me — I  want  to  try  and 
forget  you.  I  must  go  right  away,  or  else  . . ." 


194  THE    MOTHER 

"Or  else?" 

Agnes  did  not  reply;  she  leaned  back  in  her 
corner  and  shivered.  Something  ominous,  like 
the  dark  wing  of  madness,  must  have  touched 
her,  for  her  eyes  grew  dim  and  she  raised  her 
hand  with  an  instinctive  movement  as  though 
to  brush  away  a  shadow  from  before  her 
face.  He  bent  again  towards  her,  stretching 
across  the  couch  and  his  fingers  gripping  and 
breaking  through  the  old  material  as  though 
it  were  a  wall  that  rose  between  them  and 
threatened  to  stifle  him. 

He  could  not  speak.  Yes,  she  was  right; 
the  explanation  he  had  been  trying  to  make 
her  believe  was  not  the  truth — it  was  the  truth 
that  was  rising  like  a  wall  and  stifling  him,  and 
which  he  did  not  know  how  to  break  down. 
And  he  sat  up,  battling  with  a  real  sense  of 
suffocation.  Now  it  was  she  who  caught  his 
hand  and  held  it  as  though  her  fingers  had 
been  grappling-hooks. 

"  O  God,"  she  whispered,  covering  her  eyes 
with  her  free  hand,  "  if  there  be  a  God,  He 
should  not  have  let  us  meet  each  other  if  we 
must  part  again.  And  you  came  to-night  be- 


THE    MOTHER  i95 

cause  you  love  me  still.  You  think  I  don't 
know  that?  I  do  know,  I  do  know,  and  that 
is  the  truth !  " 

She  raised  her  face  to  his,  her  trembling  lips, 
her  lashes  wet  with  tears.  And  his  eyes  were 
dazzled  as  by  the  glitter  of  deep  waters,  a 
glitter  that  blinds  and  beckons,  and  the  face 
he  gazed  into  was  not  the  face  of  Agnes,  nor 
the  face  of  any  woman  on  this  earth, — it  was 
the  face  of  Love  itself.  And  he  fell  forward 
into  her  arms  and  kissed  her  upon  the  mouth. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  world  had  ceased  for  Paul.  He  felt 
himself  sinking  slowly,  swept  down  by  a 
whirlpool  through  luminous  depths  to  some 
dazzling  iridescent  place  beneath  the  sea.  Then 
he  came  to  himself  again  and  drew  his  lips  away 
from  hers,  and  found  himself,  like  a  ship- 
wrecked man  upon  the  sand,  safe  though 
maimed,  and  shaking  with  fear  and  joy,  but 
more  with  fear  than  joy.  And  the  enchantment 
that  he  thought  had  been  broken  for  ever,  and 
for  this  very  reason  had  seemed  more  beautiful 
and  dear,  wove  its  spell  over  him  afresh  and 
held  him  again  in  thrall.  And  again  he  heard 
the  whisper  of  her  voice : 

"  I  knew  you  would  come  back  to  me.  .  .  ." 

He  wanted  to  hear  no  more,  just  as  he  had 

tried  not  to  hear  the  servant's  tale  in  the  house 

of  Antiochus.  He  put  his  hand  over  Agnes's 

mouth  as  she  leaned  her  head  upon  his  shoulder 

and  then  gently  caressed  her  hair,  on  which 
197 


198  THE    MOTHER 

the  lamplight  threw  golden  gleams.  She  was 
so  small,  so  helpless  in  his  grasp,  and  therein 
lay  her  terrible  power  to  drag  him  down  to  the 
bottom  of  the  sea,  to  raise  him  to  the  highest 
heights  of  heaven,  to  make  of  him  a  thing 
without  will  or  desire  of  his  own.  Whilst  he 
had  fled  through  the  valleys  and  the  hills  she 
had  remained  shut  up  within  her  prison-house, 
waiting  in  the  certainty  that  he  would  come 
back  to  her,  and  he  came. 

"  You  know,  you  know  .  .  ."  She  tried  to 
tell  him  more;  her  soft  breath  touched  his 
neck  like  a  caress,  he  placed  his  hand  on  her 
mouth  again  and  with  her  own  she  pressed  it 
close.  And  so  they  remained  in  silence  for  a 
while;  then  he  pulled  himself  together  and  tried 
to  regain  the  mastery  over  his  fate.  He  had 
come  back  to  her,  yes,  but  not  the  same  man 
she  had  expected.  And  his  gaze  still  rested  on 
her  gleaming  hair,  but  as  on  something  far 
away,  as  on  the  bright  sparkle  of  the  sea  from 
which  he  had  escaped. 

"  Now  you  are  happy,"  he  whispered.  "  I 
am  here,  I  have  come  back  and  I  am  yours  for 
life.  But  you  must  be  calm,  you  have  given 


THE    MOTHER  199 

me  a  great  fright.  You  must  not  excite  your- 
self, nor  wander  on  any  account  from  the 
straight  path  of  your  life.  I  shall  cause  you 
no  more  trouble,  but  you  must  promise  me  to 
be  calm  and  good,  as  you  are  now." 

He  felt  her  hands  tremble  and  struggle  be- 
tween his  own ;  he  divined  that  she  was  already 
beginning  to  rebel  and  he  held  them  tightly,  as 
he  would  have  liked  to  hold  her  soul  im- 
prisoned. 

"  Dear  Agnes,  listen !  You  will  never  know 
all  I  have  suffered  to-day,  but  it  was  necessary. 
I  stripped  off  all  the  outward  shell  of  me,  all 
that  was  impure,  and  I  scourged  myself  until  I 
bled.  But  now  here  I  am,  yours,  yours,  but 
as  God  wills  that  I  should  be  yours,  in  spirit. 
.  .  .  You  see,"  he  went  on,  speaking  slowly 
and  laboriously,  as  though  dragging  his  words 
up  painfully  from  his  inmost  depths  and  offer- 
ing them  to  her,  "  it  seems  to  me  that  we  have 
loved  each  other  for  years  and  years,  that  we 
have  rejoiced  and  suffered  the  one  for  the  other, 
even  unto  hatred,  even  unto  death.  And  all 
the  tempests  of  the  sea  and  all  its  implacable 
life  are  within  us.  Agnes,  soul  of  my  soul,  what 


200  THE    MOTHER 

wouldst  thou  have  of  me  greater  than  that 
which  I  can  give  thee,  my  soul  itself?" 

He  stopped  short.  He  felt  that  she  did  not 
understand,  she  could  not  understand.  And 
he  beheld  her  ever  more  detached  from  him, 
as  life  from  death;  but  for  this  very  reason  he 
loved  her  still,  yea,  more  than  ever,  as  one 
loves  life  that  is  dying. 

She  slowly  raised  her  head  from  his  shoulder 
and  looked  him  in  the  face  with  eyes  grown 
hostile  again. 

"  Now  you  listen  to  me,"  she  said,  "  and  tell 
me  no  more  lies.  Are  we  or  are  we  not  going 
away  together  as  we  settled  last  night?  We 
cannot  go  on  living  here,  in  this  way.  That  is 
certain!  .  .  .  That  is  certain!"  she  repeated 
with  rising  anger,  after  a  moment  of  painful 
silence.  "  If  we  are  to  live  together  we  must 
go  away  at  once,  this  very  night.  I  have 
money,  you  know,  it  is  my  own.  And  your 
mother  and  my  brothers  and  every  one  else 
will  excuse  us  afterwards  when  they  see  that  we 
only  wanted  to  live  according  to  the  truth. 
We  cannot  go  on  living  like  this,  no,  we  can- 
not!" 


THE    MOTHER  201 

"Agnes!" 

"  Answer  me  quick !    Yes  or  no  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  go  away  with  you." 

"Ah — then  why  have  you  come  back?  .  .  . 
Leave  me!  Get  away,  leave  me!  " 

He  did  not  leave  her.  He  felt  her  whole 
body  shaking  and  he  was  afraid  of  her;  and 
as  she  bowed  herself  over  their  united  hands 
he  expected  to  feel  her  teeth  fasten  in  his 
flesh. 

"  Go,  go !  "  she  insisted,  "  I  did  not  send  for 
you!  Since  we  must  be  brave,  why  did  you 
come  back?  Why  have  you  kissed  me  again? 
Ah,  if  you  think  you  can  play  with  me  like  this 
you  are  mistaken !  If  you  think  you  can  come 
here  at  night  and  write  me  humiliating  letters 
in  the  day  you  are  mistaken  again !  You  came 
back  to-night  and  you  will  come  back  to-morrow 
night  and  every  night  after  that,  until  at  last 
you  drive  me  mad.  But  I  won't  have  it,  I  won't 
have  it!" 

"  We  must  be  pure  and  brave,  you  say,"  she 
continued,  and  her  face,  grown  old  and  tragic, 
became  now  pale  as  death;  "but  you  never 
said  that  before  to-night.  You  fill  me  with 


202  THE    MOTHER 

horror!  Go  away,  far  away,  and  go  at  once, 
so  that  to-morrow  I  can  wake  up  without  the 
terror  of  expecting  you  and  being  humiliated 
like  this  again." 

"O  God,  O  God!"  he  groaned,  bending 
over  her,  but  she  repulsed  him  sharply. 

"  Do  you  think  you  are  speaking  to  a  child?  " 
she  burst  out  now:  "  I  am  old,  and  it  is  you 
who  have  made  me  grow  old  in  a  few  hours. 
The  straight  path  of  life!  Oh,  yes,  it  would 
be  going  straight  if  we  continued  this  secret 
intrigue,  wouldn't  it?  I  should  find  myself  a 
husband  and  you  should  marry  me  to  him,  and 
then  we  could  go  on  seeing  each  other,  you  and 
I,  and  deceiving  every  one  for  the  rest  of  our 
lives.  Oh,  you  don't  know  me  if  that  is  your 
idea !  Last  night  you  said,  '  Let  us  go  away, 
we  will  get  married  and  I  will  work.'  Didn't 
you  say  tha"t?  Didn't  you?  But  to-night  you 
come  and  talk  to  me  instead  about  God  and 
sacrifice.  So  now  there  is  an  end  of  it  all:  we 
will  part.  But  you,  I  say  it  again,  you  must 
leave  the  village  this  very  night,  I  never  wish 
to  see  you  again.  If  to-morrow  morning  you 
go  once  more  into  our  church  to  say  Mass  I 


THE    MOTHER  203 

shall  go  there  too,  and  from  the  altar  steps  I 
shall  say  to  the  people :    *  This  is  your  saint, 

who  works  miracles  by  day  and  by  night  goes 
/ 

to  unprotected  girls  to  seduce  them ! ' 
*x"^He  tried  in  vain  to  shut  her  mouth  with  his 
hand,  and  as  she  kept  on  crying  aloud,  "  Go, 
go!  "  he  seized  her  head  and  pressed  it  to  his 
breast,  glancing  with  alarm  at  the  closed  doors. 
And  he  remembered  his  mother's  words  and 
her  voice,  mysterious  in  the  darkness :  "  The 
old  priest  sat  beside  me  and  said,  I  will  soon 
turn  both  you  and  your  son  out  of  the  parish." 
"  Agnes,  Agnes,  you  are  mad !  "  he  groaned, 
his  lips  close  to  her  ear,  whilst  she  struggled 
fiercely  to  escape  from  him :  "  Be  calm,  listen 
to  me.  Nothing  is  lost;  don't  you  feel  how  I 
love  you  ?  A  thousand  times  more  than  before ! 
And  I  am  not  going  away,  I  am  going  to  stay 
near  you,  to  save  you,  to  offer  up  my  soul  to 
you  as  I  shall  offer  it  up  to  God  in  the  hour  of 
death.  How  can  you  know  all  that  I  have 
suffered  between  last  night  and  now?  I  fled 
and  I  bore  you  with  me :  I  fled  like  one  who  is 
on  fire  and  who  thinks  by  fleeing  to  escape  the 
flames  which  only  envelop  him  the  more. 


204  THE    MOTHER 

Where  have  I  not  been  to-day,  what  have  I  not 
done  to  keep  myself  from  coming  back  to  you? 
Yet  here  I  am,  Agnes,  and  how  could  I  not 
be  here?  .  .  .  Do  you  hear  me?  I  shall  not 
betray  you,  I  shall  not  forget  you,  I  do  not  wish 
to  forget  you !  But,  Agnes,  we  must  keep  our- 
selves unsoiled,  we  must  keep  our  love  for  all 
eternity,  we  must  unite  it  with  all  that  is  best 
in  life,  with  renunciation,  with  death  itself, 
that  is  to  say,  with  God.  Do  you  understand, 
Agnes?  Yes,  tell  me  that  you  understand!" 

She  fought  him  back,  as  though  she  wanted 
to  break  in  his  breast  with  her  head,  till  at  last 
she  freed  herself  from  his  embrace  and  sat 
rigid  and  upright,  her  beautiful  hair  twisted 
like  ribbons  round  her  stony  face.  With  tight- 
shut  lips  and  closed  eyes,  she  seemed  to  have 
suddenly  fallen  into  a  deep  sleep,  wherein  she 
dreamed  of  vengeance.  And  he  was  more  afraid 
of  her  silence  and  immobility  than  of  her  fren- 
zied words  and  excited  gestures.  He  took  her 
hands  again  in  his,  but  now  all  four  hands 
were  dead  to  joy  and  to  the  clasp  of  love. 

"Agnes,  can't  you  see  that  I  am  right? 
Come,  be  good;  go  to  bed  now  and  to-morrow 


THE    MOTHER  205 

a  new  life  will  begin  for  us  all.  We  shall  see 
each  other  just  the  same,  always  supposing  you 
desire  it:  I  will  be  your  friend,  your  brother, 
and  we  shall  be  a  mutual  help  and  support. 
My  life  is  yours,  dispose  of  me  as  you  wish.  I 
shall  be  with  you  till  the  hour  of  death,  and 
beyond  death,  for  all  eternity." 

This  tone  of  prayer  irritated  her  afresh. 
She  twisted  her  hands  slightly  within  his  and 
opened  her  lips  to  speak.  Then,  as  he  set  her 
free,  she  folded  her  hands  in  her  lap  and  bowed 
her  head  and  her  face  took  on  an  expression  of 
the  deepest  grief,  but  now  a  grief  that  was 
desperate  and  determined. 

He  continued  to  gaze  steadfastly  at  her,  as 
one  gazes  at  the  dying,  and  his  fear  increased. 
He  slid  to  his  knees  before  her,  he  laid  his  head 
in  her  lap  and  kissed  her  hands;  he  cared  noth- 
ing now  if  he  were  seen  or  heard,  he  knelt  there 
at  the  feet  of  the  woman  and  her  sorrow  as  at 
the  feet  of  the  Mother  of  Sorrows  herself. 
Never  before  had  he  felt  so  pure  of  evil 
thought,  so  dead  to  this  earthly  life ;  and  yet  he 
was  afraid. 

Agnes  sat  motionless,  with  icy  hands,  insen- 


206  THE    MOTHER 

sible  to  those  kisses  of  death.  Then  he  got  up 
and  began  to  speak  lies  again. 

"  Thank  you,  Agnes — that  is  right  and  I  am 
very  pleased.  The  trial  has  been  won  and  you 
can  rest  in  peace.  I  am  going  now,  and  to- 
morrow," he  added  in  a  whisper,  bending  ner- 
vously towards  her,  "  to-morrow  morning  you 
will  come  to  Mass  and  together  we  will  offer 
our  sacrifice  to  God." 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him,  then 
closed  them  again.  She  was  as  one  wounded 
to  death,  whose  eyes  had  opened  wide  with  a 
last  menace  and  appeal  before  they  closed  for 
ever. 

'  You  will  go  away  to-night,  quite  away,  so 
that  I  shall  never  see  you  again,"  she  said,  pro- 
nouncing each  word  distinctly  and  decisively, 
and  he  realized  that  for  the  moment  at  least  it 
was  useless  to  oppose  that  blind  force. 

"  I  cannot  go  like  that,"  he  murmured :  "I 
must  say  Mass  to-morrow  morning  and  you  will 
come  and  hear  it,  and  afterwards  I  will  go 
away,  if  necessary." 

'  Then  I  shall  come  to-morrow  morning  and 
denounce  you  before  all  the  congregation." 


THE    MOTHER  207 

"  If  you  do  that  it  will  be  a  sign  that  it  is 
God's  will.  But  you  won't  do  it,  Agnes !  You 
may  hate  me,  but  I  leave  you  in  peace.  Good- 
bye." 

Even  yet  he  did  not  go.  He  stood  quite 
still,  looking  down  at  her,  at  her  soft  and 
gleaming  hair,  the  sweet  hair  he  loved  and 
through  which  so  often  his  hands  had  strayed, 
and  it  awoke  in  him  an  infinite  pity,  for  it 
seemed  like  the  black  bandage  round  a  wounded 
head. 

For  the  last  time  he  called  her  by  her  name : 

"Agnes!  Is  it  possible  that  we  can  part 
like  this?  .  .  .  Come,"  he  added  after  a  mo- 
ment, "give  me  your  hand,  get  up  and  open 
the  door  for  me." 

She  got  up  obediently,  but  she  did  not  give 
him  her  hand;  she  went  direct  to  the  door 
through  which  she  had  entered  the  room,  and 
there  she  stood  still,  waiting. 

"  What  can  I  do?  "  he  asked  himself.  And 
he  knew  very  well  that  there  was  only  one 
thing  he  could  do  to  appease  her:  to  fall  at 
her  feet  again,  to  sin  and  be  lost  with  her  for 
ever. 


208  THE    MOTHER 

And  that  he  would  not  do,  never  never  more. 
He  remained  firm,  there  where  he  stood,  and 
lowered  his  eyes  that  he  might  not  meet  her 
look,  and  when  he  raised  them  again  she  was 
no  longer  there;  she  had  disappeared,  swal- 
lowed up  in  the  darkness  of  her  silent  house. 
***** 

The  glass  eyes  of  the  stags'  and  deer's  heads 
upon  the  walls  looked  down  at  him  with 
mingled  sadness  and  derision.  And  in  that  mo- 
ment of  suspense,  alone  in  the  big  melancholy 
room,  he  realized  the  whole  immensity  of  his 
wretchedness  and  his  humiliation.  He  felt 
himself  a  thief,  and  worse  than  a  thief,  a  guest 
who  takes  advantage  of  the  solitude  of  the 
house  that  shelters  him  to  rob  it  basely.  He 
averted  his  eyes,  for  he  could  not  meet  even  the 
glassy  stare  of  the  heads  upon  the  wall :  but  he 
did  not  waver  in  his  purpose  for  one  moment, 
and  even  if  the  death-cry  of  the  woman  had 
suddenly  filled  the  house  with  horror,  he  would 
not  have  repented  having  rejected  her. 

He  waited  a  few  minutes  longer,  but  nobody 
appeared.  He  had  a  confused  idea  that  he  was 
standing  in  the  middle  of  a  dead  world  of  all 


THE    MOTHER  209 

his  dreams  and  his  mistakes,  waiting  till  some 
one  came  and  helped  him  to  get  away.  But 
nobody  came.  So  at  last  he  pushed  open  the 
door  that  led  into  the  orchard,  traversed  the 
path  that  ran  beside  the  wall  and  went  out  by 
the  little  gate  he  knew  so  well. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ONCE  more  Paul  found  himself  ascending 
his  own  staircase;  but  now  the  danger 
was  past,  or  at  least  the  fear  of  danger. 

Nevertheless  he  halted  before  his  mother's 
door,  deeming  that  it  would  be  advisable  to  tell 
her  the  result  of  his  interview  with  Agnes  and 
of  her  threat  to  denounce  him.  But  he  heard 
the  sound  of  regular  breathing  and  passed  on; 
his  mother  had  quietly  fallen  asleep,  for  hence- 
forth she  was  sure  of  him  and  felt  that  he  was 
safe. 

Safe !  He  looked  round  his  room  as  though 
he  had  just  returned  from  a  long  and  disastrous 
journey.  Everything  was  peaceful  and  tidy, 
and  he  moved  about  on  tiptoe  as  he  began  to 
undress,  for  the  sake  of  not  disturbing  that 
orderliness  and  silence.  His  clothes  hanging 
from  their  hooks,  blacker  than  their  shadows 
on  the  wall,  his  hat  above  them,  stuck  forward 
on  a  wooden  peg,  the  sleeves  of  his  cassock 


211 


212  THE    MOTHER 

falling  limply  as  though  tired  out,  all  had  the 
vague  appearance  of  some  dark  and  empty 
phantom,  some  fleshless  and  bloodless  vampire 
that  inspired  a  nameless  dread.  It  was  like 
the  shadow  of  that  sin  from  which  he  had  cut 
himself  free,  but  which  was  waiting  to  follow 
him  again  to-morrow  on  his  way  through  the 
world. 

An  instant  more,  and  he  perceived  with  ter- 
ror that  the  nightmare  obsessed  him  still.  He 
was  not  safe  yet,  there  was  another  night  to  be 
got  through,  as  the  voyager  crosses  a  last 
stretch  of  turbulent  sea.  He  was  very  weary 
and  his  heavy  eyelids  drooped  with  fatigue, 
but  an  intolerable  anxiety  prevented  him  from 
throwing  himself  on  his  bed,  or  even  sitting 
down  on  a  chair  or  resting  in  any  way  what- 
ever; he  wandered  here  and  there,  doing  small, 
unusual,  useless  things,  softly  opening  drawer 
after  drawer  and  inspecting  what  there  was 
inside. 

As  he  passed  before  the  mirror  he  looked  at 
his  own  reflection  and  beheld  himself  grey  of 
face,  with  purple  lips  and  hollow  eyes.  "  Look 
well  at  yourself,  Paul,"  he  said  to  his  image, 


THE    MOTHER  213 

and  he  stepped  back  a  little  so  that  the  lamp- 
light might  fall  better  on  the  glass.  The  figure 
in  the  mirror  stepped  back  also,  as  though  seek- 
ing to  escape  him,  and  as  he  stared  into  its 
eyes  and  noted  the  dilated  pupils  he  had  a 
strange  impression  that  the  real  Paul  was  the 
one  in  the  glass,  a  Paul  who  never  lied  and  who 
betrayed  by  the  pallor  of  his  face  all  his  awful 
fear  of  the  morrow. 

'  Why  do  I  pretend  even  to  myself  a  security 
which  I  do  not  feel?  "  was  his  silent  question. 
"  I  must  go  away  this  very  night  as  she  bade 
me." 

And  somewhat  calmer  for  the  resolve  he 
threw  himself  on  his  bed.  And  thus,  with 
closed  eyes  and  face  pressed  into  the  pillow, 
he  believed  he  could  search  more  deeply  into 
his  conscience. 

"  Yes,  I  must  leave  to-night.  Christ  Himself 
commands  us  to  avoid  creating  scandals.  I 
had  better  wake  my  mother  and  tell  her,  and 
perhaps  we  can  leave  together;  she  can  take 
me  away  with  her  again  as  she  did  when  I  was 
a  child  and  I  can  begin  a  new  life  in  another 
place." 


2i4  THE    MOTHER 

But  he  felt  that  all  this  was  mere  exaltation 
and  that  he  had  not  the  courage  to  do  as  he 
proposed.  And  why  should  he?  He  really  felt 
quite  sure  that  Agnes  would  not  carry  out  her 
threat,  so  why  should  he  go  away?  He  was 
not  even  confronted  with  the  danger  of  going 
back  to  her  and  falling  into  sin  again,  for  he 
had  now  been  tried  and  had  overcome  tempta- 
tion. 

But  the  exaltation  took  hold  of  him  again. 

"  Nevertheless,  Paul,  you  will  have  to  go. 
Awaken  your  mother  and  depart  together. 
Don't  you  know  who  it  is  speaking  to  you?  It 
is  I,  Agnes.  You  really  believe  that  I  shall  not 
carry  out  my  threat?  Perhaps  I  shall  not, 
but  I  advise  you  to  go,  all  the  same.  You  think 
you  have  got  rid  of  me?  And  yet  I  am  within 
you,  I  am  the  evil  genius  of  your  life.  If  you 
remain  here  I  shall  never  leave  you  alone  for 
one  single  instant;  I  shall  be  the  shadow  be- 
neath your  feet,  the  barrier  between  you  and 
your  mother,  between  you  and  your  own  self. 
Go." 

Then  he  tried  to  pacify  her,  in  order  to 
pacify  his  own  conscience. 


THE    MOTHER  215 

'*  Yes,  I  am  going,  I  tell  you  I  I  am  going — 
we  will  go  together,  you  within  me,  more  alive 
than  I  myself.  Be  content,  torment  me  no 
more!  We  are  together,  journeying  together, 
borne  on  the  wings  of  time  towards  eternity. 
Divided  and  distant  we  were  when  our  eyes  first 
met  and  our  lips  kissed;  divided  were  we  then 
and  enemies;  only  now  begins  our  real  union,  in 
thy  hatred,  in  my  patience,  in  my  renunciation." 

*  *  3|c  !)c  # 

Then  weariness  slowly  overcame  him.  He 
heard  a  subdued,  continuous  moaning  outside 
his  window,  like  a  dove  seeking  her  mate:  and 
that  mournful  cry  was  like  the  lament  of  the 
night  itself,  a  night  pale  with  moonlight,  a 
soft,  veiled  light,  with  the  sky  all  flecked  with 
little  white  clouds  like  feathers.  Then  he  be- 
came aware  that  it  was  he  himself  who  was 
moaning;  but  sleep  was  already  stealing  over 
him,  calming  his  senses,  and  fear  and  sorrow 
and  remembrance  faded  away.  He  dreamed 
he  was  really  on  a  journey,  riding  up  the  moun- 
tain paths  towards  the  plateau.  Everything 
was  peaceful  and  clear;  between  the  big  yellow 
elder  trees  he  could  see  stretches  of  grass,  of  a 


216  THE    MOTHER 

soft  green  that  gave  rest  to  the  eyes,  and 
motionless  upon  the  rocks  the  eagles  blinked 
at  the  sun. 

Suddenly  the  keeper  stood  before  him,  sa- 
luted, and  placed  an  open  book  on  his  saddle- 
bow. And  he  began  to  read  St.  Paul's  Epistle 
to  the  Corinthians,  taking  it  up  at  the  precise 
point  where  he  had  left  off  the  previous  night: 
"  The  Lord  knows  the  thoughts  of  the  wise 
and  that  they  are  vain." 


On  Sundays  Mass  was  later  than  on  other 
days,  but  Paul  always  went  early  to  the  church 
to  hear  the  confessions  of  those  women  who 
wished  to  attend  Communion  later.  So  his 
mother  called  him  at  the  usual  time. 

He  had  slept  for  some  hours,  a  heavy  dream- 
less sleep,  and  when  he  woke  his  memory  was 
a  complete  blank,  he  only  had  a  supreme  desire 
to  go  to  sleep  again  immediately.  But  the 
knocks  on  his  door  persisted,  and  then  he  re- 
membered. Instantly  he  was  on  his  feet,  numb 
with  dread. 

"  Agnes  will  come  to  church  and  denounce 


THE    MOTHER  217 

me    before    all    the    people,"    was    his    one 
thought. 

He  did  not  know  why,  but  somehow  whilst 
he  slept  the  certainty  that  she  would  carry 
out  her  threat  had  taken  firm  root  in  his 
consciousness. 

He  dropped  down  in  his  chair  with  trembling 
knees  and  a  sense  of  complete  helplessness. 
His  mind  was  clouded  and  confused:  he  won- 
dered vaguely  if  it  would  not  be  possible  even 
now  to  avert  the  scandal — he  might  feign  ill- 
ness and  not  say  Mass  at  all,  and  thus  gain 
time  in  which  he  might  endeavour  to  pacify 
Agnes.  But  the  very  idea  of  beginning  the 
whole  thing  over  again,  of  suffering  a  second 
time  all  his  misery  of  the  previous  day,  only 
increased  his  mental  torment. 

He  got  up,  and  his  head  seemed  to  hit  the 
sky  through  the  glass  of  his  window,  and  he 
stamped  his  feet  on  the  floor  to  dispel  the 
numbness  that  was  paralysing  his  very  blood. 
Then  he  dressed,  drawing  his  leather  belt 
rightly  round  his  waist  and  folding  his  mantle 
round  him  as  he  had  seen  the  hunters  buckle 
on  their  cartridge-belts  and  wrap  themselves 


2i8  THE    MOTHER 

up  in  their  cloaks  before  starting  out  for  the 
mountains.  When  at  last  he  flung  open  his 
window  and  leaned  out  he  felt  that  only  then 
were  his  eyes  awaking  to  the  light  of  day  after 
the  nightmare  of  the  dark  hours,  only  then 
had  he  escaped  from  the  prison  of  his  own  self 
to  make  his  peace  with  external  things.  But  it 
was  a  forced  peace,  full  of  secret  rancour, 
and  it  sufficed  for  him  to  draw  in  his  head  from 
the  cool  fresh  air  outside  to  the  warm  and  per- 
fumed atmosphere  of  his  room  for  him  to  fall 
back  into  himself,  a  prey  again  to  his  gnawing 
dread. 

So  he  fled  downstairs,  wondering  what  he 
had  better  tell  his  mother. 

He  heard  her  somewhat  harsh  voice  driving 
off  the  chickens  who  were  trying  to  invade 
the  dining-room,  and  the  fluttering  of  their 
wings  as  they  scattered  before  her,  and  he 
smelt  the  fragrance  of  hot  coffee  and  the  clean 
sweet  scents  from  the  garden.  In  the  lane 
under  the  ridge  there  was  a  tinkle  of  bells  as 
the  goats  were  driven  to  their  pasture,  little 
bells  that  sounded  like  childish  echoes  of  the 
cheerful  if  monotonous  chime  wherewith  Antio- 


THE    MOTHER  219 

chus,  up  in  the  church  tower,  summoned  the 
people  to  wake  from  sleep  and  come  to  hear 
Mass. 

Everything  around  was  sweet  and  peaceful, 
bathed  in  the  rosy  light  of  early  morning.  And 
Paul  remembered  his  dream. 

There  was  nothing  to  hinder  him  from  going 
out,  from  going  to  church  and  taking  up  his 
ordinary  life  again.  Yet  all  his  fear  returned 
upon  him;  he  was  afraid  alike  of  going  forward 
or  of  turning  back.  As  he  stood  on  the  step 
of  the  open  door  he  felt  as  if  he  were  on  the 
summit  of  some  precipitous  mountain,  it  was 
impossible  to  get  any  higher  and  below  him 
yawned  the  abyss.  So  he  stood  there  for  un- 
speakable moments,  during  which  his  heart 
beat  furiously  and  he  had  the  physical  sensa- 
tion of  falling,  of  struggling  at  the  bottom  of  a 
gulf,  in  a  swirl  of  foaming  waters,  a  wheel  that 
turned  helplessly,  vainly  beating  the  stream 
that  swept  on  its  relentless  course. 

It  was  his  own  heart  that  turned  and  turned 
helplessly  in  the  whirlpool  of  life.  He  closed 
the  door  and  went  back  into  the  house,  and  sat 
down  on  the  stairs  as  his  mother  had  done  the 


220  THE    MOTHER 

previous  night.  He  gave  up  trying  to  solve 
the  problem  that  tortured  him  and  simply 
waited  for  some  one  to  come  and  help  him. 

And  there  his  mother  found  him.  When  he 
saw  her  he  got  up  immediately,  feeling  some- 
how comforted  at  once,  yet  humiliated,  too, 
in  the  very  depths  of  his  being,  so  sure  was  he 
of  the  advice  she  would  give  him  to  proceed 
upon  his  chosen  way. 

But  at  the  first  sight  of  him  her  worn  face 
grew  pale,  as  though  refined  through  grief. 

"  Paul !  "  she  cried,  "  what  are  you  doing 
there?  Are  you  ill?" 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  walking  to  the  front 
door  without  turning  into  the  dining-room, 
"  I  did  not  want  to  wake  you  last  night,  it 
was  so  late.  Well,  I  went  to  see  her.  I  went 
to  see  her.  .  .  ." 

His  mother  had  already  recovered  her  com- 
posure and  stood  looking  fixedly  at  him.  In 
the  brief  silence  that  followed  his  words  they 
could  hear  the  church  bell  ringing  quickly  and 
insistently  as  though  it  were  right  over  the 
house. 

"  She  is  quite  well,"  continued  Paul,  "  but 


THE    MOTHER  221 

she  is  very  excited  and  insists  that  I  shall 
leave  the  place  at  once :  otherwise  she  threatens 
to  come  to  church  and  create  a  scandal  by  de- 
nouncing me  before  the  congregation." 

His  mother  kept  silence,  but  he  felt  her 
at  his  side,  stern  and  steadfast,  upholding  him, 
supporting  him  as  she  had  supported  his 
earliest  steps. 

"  She  wanted  me  to  go  away  this  very  night. 
And  she  said  that  ...  if  I  did  not  go,  she 
would  come  to  church  this  morning.  ...  I  am 
not  afraid  of  her:  besides,  I  don't  believe  she 
will  come." 

He  opened  the  front  door  and  a  flood  of 
golden  light  poured  into  the  dark  little  passage, 
as  though  trying  to  entice  him  and  his  mother 
out  into  the  sunshine.  Paul  walked  towards 
the  church  without  turning  round,  and  his 
mother  stood  at  the  door  looking  after  him. 

She  had  not  opened  her  lips,  but  a  slight 
trembling  seized  her  again,  and  only  with  an 
effort  could  she  maintain  her  outward  com- 
posure. All  at  once  she  went  up  to  her  bed- 
room and  hurriedly  dressed  for  church:  she 
was  going  too,  and  she,  too,  drew  in  her  belt 


222  THE    MOTHER 

and  walked  with  firm  steps.  And  before  she 
left  the  house  she  remembered  to  drive  out 
the  intruding  chickens  again,  and  to  draw  the 
coffee-pot  to  the  side  of  the  fire;  then  she 
twisted  the  long  end  of  her  scarf  over  her 
mouth  and  chin  to  hide  the  obstinate  trembling 
that  would  persist  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts  to 
overcome  it. 

So  it  was  only  with  a  glance  of  the  eyes  that 
she  could  return  the  greetings  of  the  women 
who  were  coming  up  from  the  village,  and  of 
the  old  men  already  seated  on  the  low  parapet 
round  the  square  before  the  church,  their  black 
pointed  caps  standing  out  in  sharp  relief  against 
the  background  of  rosy  morning  sky. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MEANWHILE  Paul  had  gone  into  the 
church. 

A  few  eager  penitents  were  waiting  for  him, 
gathered  round  the  confessional;  the  woman 
who  had  arrived  first  was  already  kneeling  at 
the  little  grating,  whilst  the  others  waited  their 
turn  in  the  benches  close  by. 

Nina  Masia  was  kneeling  on  the  floor  under 
the  holy-water  stoup,  which  looked  as  though 
it  were  resting  on  her  wicked  little  head,  while 
several  boys  who  were  early  astir  were  gathered 
in  a  circle  round  her.  Hurrying  in  with  his 
thoughts  elsewhere  the  priest  knocked  up 
against  them,  and  his  anger  rose  instantly  as 
he  recognized  the  girl,  who  had  been  placed 
there  by  her  mother  on  purpose  that  she  might 
attract  attention.  She  seemed  to  be  always 
in  his  way,  at  once  a  hindrance  and  a  re- 
proach. 

"  Clear  out  of  this  instantly!  "  he  bade  them, 
223 


224  THE    MOTHER 

in  a  voice  so  loud  that  it  was  heard  all  over  the 
church;  and  immediately  the  circle  of  boys 
spread  itself  out  and  moved  a  little  farther  off, 
with  Nina  still  in  the  middle,  but  they  grouped 
themselves  round  her  in  such  a  way  that  she 
could  be  seen  by  every  one.  The  women  all 
turned  their  heads  to  look  at  her,  though  with- 
out interrupting  their  prayers  for  an  instant: 
she  really  looked  as  if  she  were  the  idol  of  the 
barbaric  little  church,  redolent  of  the  smell  of 
the  fields  brought  in  by  the  peasants  and  flooded 
with  the  rosy  haze  of  a  country  morning. 

Paul  walked  straight  up  the  nave,  but  his 
secret  anguish  grew  ever  greater.  As  he 
passed,  his  cassock  brushed  against  the  seat 
where  Agnes  usually  sat;  it  was  the  old  family 
pew,  the  kneeling-stool  in  front  of  it  richly 
carved,  and  with  his  eyes  and  measured  paces 
he  calculated  the  distance  between  it  and  the 
altar. 

"  If  I  watch  for  the  moment  when  she  rises 
to  carry  out  her  fatal  threat  I  shall  have  time 
to  get  into  the  sacristy,"  was  his  conclusion, 
and  he  shivered  now  as  he  entered. 

Antiochus  had  hurried  down  from  the  belfry 


THE    MOTHER  225 

to  help  Paul  robe  himself,  and  was  waiting  for 
him  beside  the  open  cupboard  where  his  vest- 
ments hung.    He  had  a  pale  and  serious,  almost 
tragic   air,   as   though   already   overshadowed 
by  the  future  career  which  had  been  settled  for 
him   the  previous   evening.      But   the   gravity 
was  transient  and  a  smile  flickered  over  the 
boy's    face,   just    fresh    from    the    wind-swept 
belfry;  his  eyes  sparkled  with  joy  beneath  their 
decorously  lowered  lids,  and  he  had  to  bite  his 
lips  to  check  the  ready  laugh;  his  young  heart 
responded  to  all  the  radiance,  the  inspirations, 
the  joyousness  of  that  festal  morning.     Then 
his  eyes  clouded  suddenly  as  he  was  arranging 
the  lace  of  the  alb  over  the  priest's  wrist  and 
he  shot  a  quick  look  at  his  master,  for  he  had 
perceived  that  the  hand  beneath  the  lace  was 
trembling  and  he  saw  that  the  beloved  face 
was  pallid  and  distraught. 

"Do  you  feel  ill,  sir?" 

Paul  did  feel  ill,  although  he  shook  his  head 
in  denial.  He  felt  as  though  his  mouth  were 
full  of  blood,  yet  a  tiny  germ  of  hope  was 
springing  up  in  the  midst  of  his  distress. 

"  I  shall  fall  down  dead,  my  heart  will  break; 


226  THE    MOTHER 

and  then,  at  least,  there  will  be  an  end  of 
everything." 

He  went  down  into  the  church  again  to  hear 
the  confessions  of  the  women,  and  saw  his 
mother  at  the  bottom  of  the  nave  near  the  door. 
Stern  and  motionless  she  knelt  there,  keeping 
watch  over  all  who  entered  the  church,  over 
the  whole  church  itself,  ready,  apparently,  to 
support  and  hold  it  up  were  it  even  to  collapse 
upon  her  head. 

But  he  had  no  more  courage  left:  only  that 
tiny  germ  of  hope  within  his  heart,  the  hope 
of  death,  grew  and  grew  till  the  breath  in  him 
stifled  and  failed. 

When  he  was  seated  inside  the  confessional 
he  felt  somewhat  calmer;  it  was  like  being  in  a 
grave,  but  at  least  he  was  hidden  from  view  and 
could  look  his  horror  in  the  face.  The  sub- 
dued whispering  of  the  women  behind  the 
gratings,  broken  by  their  little  sighs  and  their 
warm  breath,  was  like  the  rustling  of  lizards 
in  the  long  grass  on  the  ridge.  And  Agnes  was 
there  too,  safe  in  the  secret  retreat  where  he 
had  so  often  taken  her  in  his  thoughts.  And 
the  soft  breathing  of  the  young  women,  the 


THE    MOTHER  22? 

scent  of  their  hair  and  their  gala  dress,  all 
perfumed  with  lavender,  mingled  with  his  dis- 
tress and  further  inflamed  his  passion. 

And  he  gave  them  all  absolution,  absolved 
them  from  all  their  sins,  thinking  that  perhaps 
before  many  days  had  passed  he  himself  would 
be  a  suppliant  to  them  for  their  compassion. 
***** 

Then  he  was  seized  with  the  craving  to  get 
out,  to  see  whether  Agnes  had  arrived.  But 
her  seat  was  empty. 

Perhaps  she  was  not  coming  after  all.  Yet 
sometimes  she  remained  at  the  bottom  of  the 
church,  kneeling  on  a  chair  which  her  servant 
brought  for  her.  He  turned  to  look,  but  saw 
only  his  mother's  rigid  figure,  and  as  he  knelt 
before  the  altar  and  began  the  Mass,  he  felt 
that  her  soul  was  bending  before  God,  clothed 
in  her  grief  as  he  was  clothed  in  his  alb  and 
stole. 

Then  he  determined  not  to  look  behind  him 
again,  to  close  his  eyes  each  time  he  had  to 
turn  round  to  give  the  blessing.  He  felt  as  if 
he  were  climbing  ever  higher  up  some  steep 
and  stony  Calvary,  and  a  sensation  of  giddiness 


228  THE    MOTHER 

seized  him  whenever  the  ritual  obliged  him  to 
face  the  congregation.  Then  he  closed  his 
eyes  to  shut  out  the  sight  of  the  abyss  that 
yawned  at  his  feet;  but  even  through  his  closed 
eyelids  he  saw  the  carven  bench  and  the  figure 
of  Agnes,  her  black  dress  standing  out  in 
jrelief  against  the  grey  wall  of  the  church. 

And  Agnes  was  really  there,  dressed  in  black 
with  a  black  veil  round  her  ivory-white  face; 
her  eyes  were  fixed  on  her  prayer-book,  the 
gilt  clasp  of  which  glittered  in  her  black-gloved 
hands,  but  she  never  turned  a  page.  The  ser- 
vant with  the  head  of  a  slave  was  kneeling  on 
the  floor  of  the  aisle  beside  the  bench,  and  every 
now  and  then  she  raised  her  eyes,  like  a  faith- 
ful dog,  to  her  mistress's  face,  as  though  in 
silent  sympathy  with  the  sad  thoughts  that 
possessed  her. 

And  he  beheld  everything  from  his  place  at 
the  altar  and  hope  died  within  him;  only  from 
the  bottom  of  his  heart  he  told  himself  it  was 
impossible  that  Agnes  would  carry  out  her 
insane  threat.  He  turned  the  pages  of  the 
Gospel,  but  his  faltering  voice  could  scarcely 
pronounce  the  words;  he  broke  into  a  sweat  of 


THE    MOTHER  229 

apprehension,  and  caught  hold  of  the  book  as 
he  fdt  himself  fainting. 


In  a  moment  he  pulled  himself  together. 
Antiochus  was  looking  at  him,  watching  the 
awful  change  that  came  over  his  face  as  over 
the  face  of  a  corpse,  keeping  close  beside  him  to 
support  him  if  he  fell,  and  glancing  at  the  old 
men  by  the  altar  rails  to  see  if  they  had  no- 
ticed the  priest's  distress.  But  nobody  noticed 
it — even  his  mother  remained  in  her  place, 
praying  and  waiting  without  seeing  anything 
amiss  with  her  son.  Then  Antiochus  drew  still 
closer  to  him  with  a  protecting  movement,  so 
that  Paul  looked  round  startled,  but  the  boy 
gave  him  a  reassuring  glance  out  of  his  bright 
eyes,  as  much  as  to  say : 

"  I  am  here,  it's  all  right,  go  on " 

And  he  went  on,  climbing  that  steep  Calvary 
till  the  blood  flowed  back  into  his  heart  and 
the  tension  of  his  nerves  relaxed.  But  it  was 
the  relaxation  of  despair,  the  abandonment  to 
danger,  the  quiet  of  the  drowning  man  who 
has  no  more  strength  to  battle  with  the  waves. 
When  he  turned  again  to  the  congregation  he 
did  not  close  his  eyes. 


230  THE    MOTHER 

"  The  Lord  be  with  you." 

Agnes  was  there  in  her  place,  bent  over  the 
page  she  never  turned,  the  gilt  clasp  of  the 
book  shining  in  the  dim  light.  The  servant 
was  crouching  at  her  feet  and  all  the  other 
women,  including  his  mother  at  the  bottom  of 
the  church,  were  sitting  back  on  their  heels  on 
the  bare  floor,  ready  to  resume  their  kneeling 
position  immediately  the  priest  should  move 
the  book. 

And  he  moved  the  book  and  went  on  with 
the  prayers  and  the  slow  gestures  of  the  ritual. 
And  a  feeling  of  tenderness  crept  into  his 
despair  at  the  thought  that  Agnes  was  bearing 
him  company  on  his  road  to  Calvary,  as  Mary 
had  followed  too,  that  in  another  moment  she 
would  mount  the  altar  steps  and  stand  beside 
him  once  again,  having  overcome  their  trans- 
gression, to  expiate  together  as  together  they 
had  sinned.  How  could  he  hate  her  if  she 
brought  his  punishment  with  her,  if  her  hatred 
was  only  love  disguised? 

Then  came  the  Communion,  and  the  few 
drops  of  wine  went  down  into  his  breast 
like  quickening  blood;  he  felt  strong,  re- 


THE    MOTHER  231 

vived,   his  heart  filled   with   the   presence   of 
God. 

And  as  he  descended  the  steps  towards  the 
women  the  figure  of  Agnes  in  her  seat  stood  out 
prominent  amidst  the  crowd  of  bowed  heads. 
She,  too,  had  bowed  her  head  upon  her  hands; 
perhaps  she  was  summoning  her  courage  be- 
fore she  moved.  And  suddenly  he  felt  infinite 
pity  for  her;  he  would  have  liked  to  go  down 
to  her  and  give  her  absolution,  and  administer 
the  Communion  as  to  a  dying  woman.  He,  too, 
had  summoned  his  courage,  but  his  hands  shook 
as  he  held  the  wafer  to  the  women's  lips. 
***** 

Immediately  the  Communion  was  ended  an 
old  peasant  began  to  intone  a  hymn.  The  con- 
gregation sang  the  verses  after  him  in  subdued 
voices,  and  repeated  the  antiphons  twice  out 
loud.  The  hymn  was  primitive  and  monoto- 
nous, old  as  the  earliest  prayers  of  man  uttered 
in  forests  where  as  yet  scarcely  man  dwelt,  old 
and  monotonous  as  the  breaking  of  waves  on  a 
solitary  shore;  yet  that  low  singing  around  her 
sufficed  to  bring  Agnes's  thoughts  back,  as 
though  she  had  been  rushing  breathless  by 


232  THE    MOTHER 

night  through  some  primeval  forest  -and  had 
suddenly  emerged  upon  the  seashore,  amidst 
sandhills  covered  with  sweet  flowers  and  golden 
ran  the  light  of  dawn. 

Something  stirred  in  the  very  depths  of  her 
being,  a  strange  emotion  gripped  her  throat; 
she  felt  the  world  turning  round  with  her  as 
though  she  had  been  walking  head  downwards 
and  now  resumed  her  natural  position. 

It  was  her  past  and  the  past  of  all  her  race 
that  surged  up  and  took  hold  of  her,  with  the 
singing  of  the  women  and  the  old  men,  with 
the  voices  of  her  nurse  and  her  servants,  the 
men  and  women  who  had  built  and  furnished 
her  house,  and  ploughed  her  fields  and  woven 
the  linen  for  her  swaddling  clothes. 

How  could  she  denounce  herself  before  all 
these  people  who  looked  up  to  her  as  their 
mistress  and  held  her  even  purer  than  the 
priest  at  the  altar?  And  then  she,  too,  felt 
the  presence  of  God  around  her  and  within 
her,  even  in  her  passion  itself. 

She  knew  very  well  that  the  punishment  she 
meant  to  inflict  upon  the  man  with  whom  she 
had  sinned  was  her  own  punishment  too;  but 


THE    MOTHER  233 

now  a  merciful  God  spoke  to  her  with  the 
voices  of  the  old  men  and  women  and  the  in- 
nocent children,  and  bade  her  beware  of  her 
own  self,  counselled  her  to  seek  salvation. 

As  her  people  round  her  sang  the  verses  of 
the  hymn,  all  the  days  of  her  solitary  life 
unrolled  themselves  before  her  inward  vision. 
She  saw  herself  again  a  little  child,  then  a 
young  girl,  then  a  grown  woman  in  this  same 
church,  on  this  same  seat  blackened  and  worn 
by  the  elbows  and  knees  of  her  forefathers. 
In  a  sense  the  church  belonged  to  her  family; 
it  had  been  built  by  one  of  her  ancestors,  and 
tradition  said  that  the  image  of  the  Madonna 
had  been  captured  from  Barbary  pirates  and 
brought  back  to  the  village  by  a  far-away 
grandfather  of  hers. 

She  had  been  born  and  brought  up  amidst 
these  traditions,  in  an  atmosphere  of  simple 
grandeur  that  kept  her  aloof  from  the  smaller 
people  of  Aar,  yet  still  in  the  midst  of  them, 
shut  in  amongst  them  like  a  pearl  in  its  rough 
shell. 

.'How  could  she  denounce  herself  before  her 
people?  But  this  very  feeling  of  being  mis- 


234  THE    MOTHER 

tress  even  of  the  sacred  building  rendered  more 
insufferable  still  the  presence  of  the  man  who 
had  been  her  companion  in  sin,  and  who  ap- 
peared at  the  altar  wearing  a  mask  of  saintli- 
ness  and  bearing  the  holy  vessels  in  his  hands 
— tall  and  splendid  he  stood  above  her  as  she 
knelt  at  his  feet,  guilty  in  that  she  had  loved 
him. 

Her  heart  swelled  anew  with  rage  and  grief 
as  the  hymn  rose  and  fell  around  her,  like  a 
supplication  rising  from  out  some  abyss,  im- 
ploring help  and  justice,  and  she  heard  the 
voice  of  God,  dark  and  stern,  bidding  her  drive 
His  unworthy  servant  out  of  His  temple. 

She  grew  pale  as  death  and  broke  into  a  cold 
sweat;  her  knees  shook  against  the  seat,  but 
she  bowed  no  more  and  with  head  erect  she 
watched  the  movements  of  the  priest  at  the 
altar.  And  it  was  as  though  some  evil  breath 
went  out  from  her  to  him,  paralysing  him,  en- 
veloping him  in  the  same  icy  grip  that  held 

her  fast. 

***** 

And  he  felt  that  mortal  breath  that  emanated 
from  her  will,  and  just  as  on  bitter  winter 


THE    MOTHER  235 

mornings,  his  fingers  were  frozen  and  uncon- 
trollable shivers  ran  down  his  spine.  When 
he  turned  to  give  the  benediction  he  saw  Agnes 
gazing  at  him.  Their  eyes  met  as  in  a  flash, 
and  like  a  drowning  man  he  remembered  in 
that  instant  all  the  joy  of  his  life,  joy  sprung 
wholly  and  solely  from  love  of  her,  from  the 
first  look  of  her  eyes,  the  first  kiss  of  her  lips. 

Then  he  saw  her  rise  from  her  seat,  book  in 
hand. 

"  Oh  God,  Thy  will  be  done,"  he  stammered, 
kneeling — and  he  seemed  to  be  actually  in  the 
Garden  of  Olives,  watching  the  shadow  of  an 
inexorable  fate. 

He  prayed  aloud  and  waited,  and  midst  the 
confused  sound  of  the  people's  prayers  he 
thought  he  could  distinguish  Agncs's  step  as 
she  moved  toward  the  altar. 

"  She  is  coming — she  has  left  her  seat,  she 
is  between  her  seat  and  the  altar.  She  is  com- 
ing .  .  .  she  is  here — every  one  is  staring  at 
her.  She  is  at  my  side !  " 

The  obsession  was  so  strong  that  the  words 
failed  on  his  lips.  He  saw  Antiochus,  who 
had  already  begun  to  extinguish  the  candles, 


236  THE    MOTHER 

suddenly  turn  and  look  round,  and  he  knew  for 
certain  that  she  was  there,  close  to  him,  on  the 
chancel  steps. 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  the  roof  seemed  to  fall 
down  upon  his  head  and  fracture  it;  his  knees 
scarcely  upheld  him,  but  with  a  sudden  effort  he 
managed  to  get  up  to  the  altar  again, and  take 
the  pyx.  And  as  he  turned  to  enter  the  sacristy 
he  saw  that  Agnes  had  advanced  from  her  seat 
to  the  railing  and  was  about  to  mount  the 
steps. 

"Oh,  Lord,  why  not  let  me  die?"  and  he 
bowed  his  head  over  the  pyx  as  though  baring 
his  neck  to  the  sword  that  was  about  to  strike 
it.  But  as  he  entered  the  sacristy  door  he 
looked  again  and  perceived  Agnes  bowed  at  the 
altar  railing  as  she  knelt  on  the  lowest  step. 
***** 

She  had  stumbled  at  the  lowest  step  outside 
the  railing,  and  as  though  a  wall  had  suddenly 
risen  up  before  her,  she  had  dropped  on  her 
knees.  A  thick  mist  dimmed  her  sight  and  she 
could  go  no  further. 

Presently  the  dimness  cleared  and  she  could 
see  the  steps  again,  the  yellow  carpet  before 


THE    MOTHER  237 

the  altar,  the  flowers  upon  the  table  and  the 
burning  lamp.  But  the  priest  had  disappeared, 
and  in  his  place  a  ray  of  sunlight  smote 
obliquely  through  the  dusk  and  made  a  golden 
patcji  upon  the  carpet. 

She  crossed  herself,  rose  to  her  feet  and 
moved  towards  the  door.  The  servant  fol- 
lowed her  and  the  old  men,  the  women  and  the 
children  turned  to  smile  at  her  and  bless  her 
with  their  eyes;  she  was  their  mistress,  their 
symbol  of  beauty  and  of  faith,  so  far  removed 
from  them  and  yet  in  the  midst  of  them  and  all 
their  misery,  like  a  wild  rose  amongst  the 
brambles. 

At  the  church  door  the  servant  offered  her 
holy  water  on  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  and  then 
stooped  to  brush  off  the  dust  of  the  altar  steps 
which  still  clung  to  her  dress.  As  the  girl 
raised  herself  again  she  saw  the  ashen  face 
of  Agnes  turned  towards  the  corner  where  the 
priest's  mother  had  knelt  through  all  the  ser-j 
vice.  Then  she  saw  the  mother  sitting  mo- 
tionless on  the  ground,  her  head  sunk  forward 
on  her  breast,  her  shoulders  leaning  against 
the  wall  as  though  she  had  made  a  supreme 


238  THE    MOTHER 

effort  to  uphold  it  in  a  great  collapse.  Notic- 
ing the  fixed  gaze  of  Agnes  and  the  servant,  a 
woman  also  turned  to  look,  then  sprang  quickly 
to  the  side  of  the  priest's  mother,  spoke  to  her 
in  a  whisper  and  raised  her  face  in  her  hand. 

The  mother's  eyes  were  half-closed,  glassy, 
the  pupils  upturned;  the  rosary  had  dropped 
from  her  hand  and  her  head  fell  sideways  on 
to  the  shoulder  of  the  woman  who  held  her. 

"  She  is  dead !  "  shrieked  the  woman. 

And  instantly  the  whole  congregation  was 
on  its  feet  and  crowding  to  the  bottom  of  the 
church. 

Meanwhile  Paul  had  gone  back  into  the 
sacristy  with  Antiochus,  who  was  carrying  the 
book  of  the  Gospel.  He  was  trembling  with 
cold  and  with  relief;  he  actually  felt  as  though 
he  had  just  escaped  from  a  shipwreck,  and  he 
wanted  to  energize  and  walk  about  to  warm 
himself  and  convince  himself  that  it  had  all 
been  a  bad  dream. 

Then  a  confused  murmur  of  voices  was  heard 
in  the  church,  at  first  low,  then  growing  quickly 
louder  and  louder.  Antiochus  put  his  head  out 
of  the  sacristy  door  and  saw  all  the  people  col- 


THE    MOTHER  239 

lected  together  at  the  bottom  of  the  nave,  as 
though  there  were  some  obstruction  at  the  en- 
trance, but  an  old  man  was  already  hastening 
up  the  chancel  steps  and  making  mysterious 
signs. 

"His  mother  is  taken  ill,"  he  said. 
Paul,  still  robed  in  his  alb,  was  down  there 
at  one  bound  and  threw  himself  on  his  knees 
that    he    might    look    more    closely    into    his 
mother's    face    as    she    lay   stretched    on    the 
ground,  with  her  head  in  a  woman's  lap  and 
hemmed  in  by  the  pressing  crowd. 
"Mother,  mother!  " 

The  face  was  still  and  rigid,  the  eyes  half- 
closed,  the  teeth  clenched  in  the  effort  not  to 
cry  aloud. 

And  he  knew  instantly  that  she  had  died  of 
the  shock  of  that  same  grief,  that  same  terror 
which  he  had  been  enabled  to  overcome. 

And  he,  too,  clenched  his  teeth  that  he 
might  not  cry  aloud  when  he  raised  his  head; 
and  across  the  confused  mass  of  the  people 
surging  round,  his  eyes  met  the  eyes  of  Agnes 
fixed  upon  him. 


